


All the Beds I've Made

by gottageekout



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Depression, Eventual Romance, Fluff and Angst, Human Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Human Markus (Detroit: Become Human), M/M, Non-Canon Relationship, POV Connor, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Self-Esteem Issues, Texting, past emotional abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-07-06 21:30:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 67,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15894513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gottageekout/pseuds/gottageekout
Summary: Connor, co-owner of a popular coffee shop in Detroit, has been content to bury himself in his business instead of putting himself out there.Things change when a cantankerous lieutenant becomes a regular.(Modern Coffee Shop AU)





	1. Surviving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big shout-out to [@shadraquarium](https://twitter.com/shadraquarium) over on Twitter Jericho for getting the juices flowing with this idea. I wanted to get it down while it was still fresh in my head - the last shore chapter will be coming soon, I promise. :)
> 
> Anyway, welcome to another 'how long will this story be, who knows, it's a mystery to everyone' tale. 
> 
> Ratings, characters, and tags may change through the course of this story. I'll make sure to warn ahead of time for anything that feels worth mentioning.
> 
> You can follow **me** on twitter over at [@dathankconlife](https://twitter.com/dathankconlife) if you'd like.

Autumn is his favorite season.

 

Detroit isn’t awake yet as he heads down the near-silent street, the sun not even beginning to peek over the horizon to start bathing things in light. The bite to the air feels good against Connor’s skin, starts to help pull him out of his usual morning sleepiness. He takes in the sights of the now overly familiar walk, appreciating, as always, the calm before the storm that is his day.

 

It’s a ten-minute walk to the shop. By the time he’s there, his cheeks and tip of his nose are a bit ruddy colored from the cold, slightly numb in an oddly pleasant way. The shop shows little signs of life, lights still off. It’s no real surprise, though he smiles a little as he remembers Markus swearing the other day he’d be better at getting here earlier. Teased he might even beat him there.

 

Not today, it seems.

 

He unlocks and opens the door, passing under the large **_COFFEELIFE_** sign that’s situated proudly over it. Closes the door and locks it behind him. It’s just as quiet inside, which is admittedly always a little jarring to him at first, and flips on the lights. Removing he knit cap from his head and tugging off his light fall jacket, he heads into the back areas of the shop, not even bothering to politely muffle his yawn.

 

The morning routine, four years in, is so familiar Connor is aware he could sleepwalk through it. And for the first five minutes, he nearly does, going through the motions to start getting things ready for business without really thinking too much about it. Markus appears not long after, his car parking near the alley by the store.

 

“There was a hold-up picking up supplies,” he says the moment Connor spots him. An excuse? Probably, but he lets it slide.

 

“Do you need help?” Connor asks, putting aside the spray he’d been using to clean.

 

“I got it,” he waves off the offer and smiles. “Simon told me to tell you good morning.”

 

And there’s the likely reason for him being a little later than even his usual sort of later. Connor doesn’t hide the amused look. Markus rolls his eyes when he sees it.

 

“Have a good time with him last night?” Connor asks, conversationally, going back to what he’d been doing.

 

“Yeah, it was pretty great, actually. I’ll be back,” he answers with a small smile, the kind Connor always reads as lovesick. He heads out then to carry things in through the back entrance.

 

The rest shuffle in soon after. Josh first, looking fresh-faced as usual, then North, who definitely looks as tired as he’s feeling. Connor’s quick to make her a cup of what he knows she usually drinks, and it’s ready by the time she’s hung up her things. He slides it over with ease.

 

“Thanks,” she huffs, and though she’s looking a bit disgruntled, she does shoot him a grateful smile as she takes a long sip of it.

 

“Rough night?” he guesses, sympathetically.

 

“Ugh,” she groans, rolling her neck back. “You guys would back me up if I ever needed a cover story to the police, right?”

 

“Always,” Markus pipes up from nearby, where he was putting up some errant books people had left behind the day before back on the shelves that line one corner of the shop, welcoming any and all to grab and read them.

 

“I’m not hiding any bodies, though, that’s on you,” Josh says just off to the side. He’d come back out front wearing his work apron, nodding to Connor as he passes. “Morning.”

 

“Like you’d even be the first person I called,” she scoffs, taking another sip before clearly deciding to put her energy into something a little more productive.

 

“I don’t think she’d call me either,” Connor admits, thoughtfully.

 

“Man, you’re even worse than me,” Josh huffs out a laugh, nudging Connor’s arm.

 

That’s probably more right than he realizes. North certainly doesn’t attempt to say otherwise.

 

It doesn’t take long for prep to be done once everyone’s there. Connor finishes putting out the bakery items just before their opening at seven, then disappears into the back to do some of his main work until the main stream of people start to trickle in an hour later. He doesn’t need to do many front-end things at all, honestly, but he likes the morning crowd.

 

Likes the feeling of helping people get their day started. There’s enough regulars now that he’s even finding himself regularly greeted. Gets small clips of updates of people’s lives that he dutifully files away. He’s always got a sharp memory, it’s never very hard to remember small details that he knows makes people feel important.

 

Not that he’s doing it specifically because of that, it’s just a nice bonus.

 

“Oh look, boss, your friend is here,” North murmurs in passing about a half hour into the usual rush. There’s exactly one person he knows she usually makes note of.

 

Connor’s gaze darts toward the door as an increasingly familiar figure lumbers in, looking by all accounts exhausted. He watches him survey the long line for coffee with a scowl, to the point he wonders if he’s going to give up on it today, because he certainly doesn’t seem to be in the mood. His gaze falls on Connor, then, and he realizes he’s looking back at him. Connor looks away immediately, guiltily, but not before he feels like the damage is done.

 

 _Shit_.

 

He half expects him to be gone when he finally ventures a look up from the spot he’d been cleaning for a good half of a minute. Instead, he finds him standing in line, scratching at his salt-and-pepper colored beard and looking impatient. Connor recognizes the fact he’s happy about him deciding to deal with the line is ridiculous. He also recognizes it’s entirely purposeful he’s at the cash register he needs to order his food in front of when he finally gets to the front of the line.

 

“Good morning, Hank,” he greets, politely. He considers apologizing for staring before deciding that it might make things awkward if he didn’t read anything into it. He does catch his gaze again, knowing this is a _far_ more appropriate time to be looking at him.

 

“Yeah, morning,” he says, exhaling a sigh. “What a damn line.”

 

It’s a common complaint. He knows he could suggest the small app Josh had put together for them, the one they’d been advertising in store for a few weeks. The app that’s _entirely meant_ for people like Hank, who wants to just come in, get their stuff, and leave.

 

He doesn’t bring it up.

 

“You’re not kidding,” Connor agrees, because yes, it _is_ a long line. One that he probably shouldn’t hold up by talking more than he must to a customer, in fact. It’s more tempting than usual to be irresponsible, which Connor rarely, if ever, is. “So. Uh. Your usual today? Regular medium coffee, splash of milk, no sugar?”

 

Hank regards him with his usual piercing gaze, thoughtful, and then there’s suddenly a tiny uptick of a smile on his face. He has _never_ seen him smile before in two months he’s been showing up daily.  It’s hard not to stare and think how nice it looks.

 

“You have everyone’s order stored up in that head of yours or just mine?” he asks, curious. The smile had already caught him off-guard, so he’s even less prepared than usual for him to actively attempt to converse with him beyond the general niceties they usually shared.

 

 _Only my favorite customers_ , his brain supplies helpfully, as if throwing him a bone for once and not just blanking on him entirely, which is what _normally_ happens in situations like this.

 

“Yes,” he blurts out regardless, and he winces inwardly at himself. He knows he should just move on immediately because this is not ever going to go well at this point, which of course means he continues, awkwardly adding, “I mean, no. Sort of? Regular customer, you know.”

 

He averts his gaze because he’s hit the all-too-familiar point of wanting to die right about now. There is a long pause, and Connor is glad he can’t quite see the confusion etched on his face.

 

“Well, that’s what I want, yeah,” he confirms, clearing his throat. “Actually, you got a darker roast? Something with a bigger kick? Just pulled an all nighter and I still have to swing by the precinct to do some paperwork.”

 

Connor isn’t ready for him to ask him for suggestions, either. This is a surprise he can handle, at least - it’s easier to shrug off his mortification when he can throw himself into work mode. He swallows, even looking him in the eye again.

 

“It’s uh – it’s funny, people tend to think darker is stronger, but that’s not exactly true,” he explains, almost desperately glad how much easier talking about coffee is than attempting small talk. “You’d probably want a drink with espresso if you’re looking for a kick. I can give you a double shot, if you like, though if you want more liquid you’d probably like an Americano. I know you don’t like a lot of milk and sugar, so most of the other espresso blends are out.”

 

Hank clearly isn’t expecting such a long answer. Usually Connor doesn’t bother to walk through his thought process when suggesting something, but yeah, maybe a little part of him wants Hank to see him at his best after his utter crash and burn earlier. Which still isn’t saying much, he’s just got an excessive amount of information about his craft crammed into his head. _Still_.

 

“Sounds like I’m ordering an Americano. I’ll just come back to bitch if I fall asleep at my desk anyway,” he threatens, but there’s no bite to it. There’s that faint hint of a smile on his face again, and Connor returns it, feeling some telltale warmth in his cheeks.

 

“I stand behind my suggestions, so I’ll take my chances,” he replies, attempting and probably failing to sound confident. It seems to appease Hank regardless, and he taps the drink’s button on the register. “That’ll be three fifteen.”

 

Connor glances off to the sides of him once he receives the money Hank forks over and sees North is still nearby and absolutely listening in to all of this as she was working. He shoots her a meaningful look and nods to the register and she takes the hint, though not without a knowing smirk.

 

“Next customer?” she calls out as Connor steps aside, taking over the job of making this drink for him.

 

He realizes he’s pushing his luck. His curiosity wins out over the last remaining sense he has in his head, though, because he thinks he’s at least guessed what kind of job he works as. He thinks he might be reading Hank doesn’t mind it either, considering he doesn’t make a beeline to where finished drinks are delivered, he’s lingering, watching him make the drink.

 

It’s very distracting.

 

“Are you a police officer?” he asks, because he’d mentioned a _precinct_. It’s a nosy question and he knows it, but it’s hard to feel like he’s got much to lose when things had been going so poorly earlier. Anyway, he likes to think it’s a good guess - Connor knows there’s a department in walking distance, it’d make sense, even though Hank doesn’t exactly look like an officer. It’s the outfit, he thinks – instead of a sharp blue uniform, he’s in casual, worn clothing, good for the weather but not exactly what he’d deem work-appropriate.

 

“Don’t sound so surprised,” Hank snorts, and oh, _there’s_ that familiar feeling of mortification smacking him hard in the chest again. He looks up sharply from the espresso that’s currently pouring and is relieved to see mirth in his expression instead of one that denotes being insulted. It’d been a self-deprecating joke, not anything he’d just done. “Lieutenant, actually, but yeah.”

 

Connor’s knowledge in how a police department is ordered and operated begins and ends on the bad procedurals he sometimes binged on when insomnia decided to keep him up late into the night. He doesn’t say this, though, and is safe in the assumption that he’s at least sure lieutenant is a decently high rank.

 

Probably.

 

He makes a mental note to look it up later.

 

“So should I be calling you _Lieutenant_ instead?” Connor asks, partially in jest, but he’s suddenly wondering if that’s the kind of thing he should be doing.

 

Hank’s face screws up at the question. “Just Hank is fine.”

 

This feels like a place he should introduce himself. Get to know your friendly barista-slash-coffee shop owner who’s about to make him the best Americano he has ever made for anyone. And he almost does introduce himself before his actual job pulls his attention away. By the time he’s done and the coffee is together, he knows he missed his chance. Probably for another two months, if the timeline of how long it took to just get this says anything.

 

(That’s probably his pessimism talking. _Probably_.)

 

Disheartening, but it would be awkward now. Or it feels like it would be. So for once he keeps his mouth shut and puts a lid on the coffee, walking it over to the pick up area. Hank follows him and once he’s standing there, he puts the cup in front of him.

 

He’s pretty sure he’s never wanted to be more right about what someone would like in a long, long time. Hank scoops it up and, after glancing at Connor, takes a sip. He doesn’t immediately spit it out, which feels like a good sign.

 

“Pretty good,” he realizes, and Connor barely manages to not audibly sigh in relief. “We’ll see how well it keeps me up.”

 

“You’ll have to come back and let me know,” he says without really thinking, and he waits for the inevitable weird stare. It doesn’t come.

 

“You bet your ass I will,” he promises instead, taking another sip before turning on his heel. Over his shoulder, he says, simply, “See you tomorrow, Connor.”

 

And then he continues walking.

 

Connor vaguely realizes he probably read his nametag, but he’s surprised enough to hear him say his name that he forgets entirely to wish him a good day.

 

* * *

 

The welcome relief he finds in burying himself in all the busywork that keeps the place afloat is palpable. He’d finished up helping clear out the small crowd before fleeing to calm down, because numbers and figures and even professional phones calls are easier.

 

Never would’ve called being this flustered two months ago. In fact, Connor had assumed after the first less than positive interaction the first time he’d come in – with Markus, no less – he’d never show up again. But he did, same time the next day, still in a lousy mood but clearly liking the product enough to deal with it.

 

(Or maybe, now that he’s figured out where he works, it’s because they’re the closest to the department. Who knows anymore?)

 

So, he took a stab at dealing with him instead and Hank seemed to respond better to his more muted and less overt friendliness than his partner’s much louder personality. Which was good, it meant him becoming a repeat customer was less of a headache, except Connor hadn’t quite been prepared to realize he found him vaguely attractive. There he’d been, sure he’d buried that entire part of himself because he’d convinced himself it made his life simpler, and all it took was a grouchy asshole to prove otherwise.

 

Which, point of order? After today’s display, he’s _still_ feeling very right about it making his life simpler, point one to him in the game he still is clearly losing.

 

That was the thing, really, though. He wasn’t _actually_ an asshole to him. He wasn’t friendly, but after that first day, it was fine. It was like dealing with a more stoic-than-normal person who just wanted coffee and to move on with his day. A few times he came in probably a little hung over, but even then there’d been no issue.

 

Connor was all good to just admire from afar, and then today happened, and – well.

 

He _may_ have lied to himself more than he thought that he was completely fine with only that. He’s not entirely sure he’s going to be able to hold conversations with him if this is now just a _thing_ they’re going to do, because it’s been a few hours and he’s still distracted, rolling the conversation over in his head.

 

Maybe this will be a one-off thing.

 

(He doesn’t like that he doesn’t want it to be.)

 

He doesn’t emerge the rest of the day. It’s not the first time he gets consumed by the details of owning a business, but it’s the first time he’s using it as a barrier to not interact with people. He knows at least North knows, which just means, inevitably, everyone is probably going to know at some point. He sits back and lets himself bend heavily back into the seat, as far as it lets him, and he just stays there. Tries to focus.

 

“Catching you at a bad time?”

 

He startles out of his thoughts abruptly, looking over just in time to see Markus entering the room entirely and closing the door behind him. He eases himself into one of the office’s seats, slouching and watching him in a way that says he _knows_ something is happening. Connor is keenly aware it will be pointless to lie with a look like that on his face.

 

“No, not at all,” he lies anyway, because maybe one day he’ll just go with it instead of prodding. He even smiles after saying it. It’s a smile he likes to think clearly says: _everything’s fine, I’m certainly not having some sort of weird crisis over a less than five-minute conversation. That would be_ pathetic _._

“I think you might somehow be getting worse at that the older we get. I’m actually impressed,” Markus deadpans, lifting an eyebrow. “North told me I should talk to you.”

 

Well, that explains some things, Connor guesses. He wonders, distantly, if maybe that smile would’ve been enough if Markus hadn’t been clued in. Probably not. He’s right, he’s really _bad_ at lying. He picks up the stress ball on the desk, squeezing it as he considers how he wants to say what’s going on. Markus won’t let this drop, he knows better than to hope for that outcome.

 

“I’m thinking I’m going to skip mornings for the foreseeable future. I have enough in here I could use the extra hours,” he finally explains. That last part is technically not a lie, he just doesn’t care as much about it as he’s acting.

 

Markus just sighs, making the face Connor recognizes as the one he usually has when he’s preparing to pry something out of him.

 

“Who are you hiding from?” he inquires, still sounding insufferably patient with him.

 

“No one.”

 

Markus squints at him, as if that’s going to pry the information out.

 

“It’s the one you usually have to deal with, right? The older guy?” he guesses. Connor winces without meaning to, which is more than enough of an indication to Markus that he’d guessed right. “He already has a strike, you know. If he was rude to you now too, I don’t mind making sure he stops coming around.”

 

Connor squeezes the ball a little harder. Would that be for the best? No, he’s not going to throw him under the bus when the conversation had been...well, entirely pleasant, gruffness aside. “He didn’t do anything to me. He just actually talked to me today, that’s all. I don’t know what North told you.”

 

Markus has to know that isn’t a lie. He watches his face closely, trying to suss out what the hell is going on. “So what’s the big – oh. _Oh_.”

 

Realization blooms on his face all at once, and while Connor hates it, he also is glad he doesn’t need to openly spell out things, which was looking increasingly likely. They have known each other since high school. He’s seen the guys he’s _tended_ towards in the few times he’d bothered trying to date. It only surprises Connor it’s taken him this long to figure this out.

 

“Him?” he asks anyway, not bothering to hide his dumbfounded look. “ _Seriously_?”

 

Connor feels a flare of – something, he doesn’t know. Like he wants to stand up for his own terrible life choices and preferences, even though it’s also something he really doesn’t want to touch with a ten-foot pole at the same time. He wisely keeps himself in check. “Really not getting into a conversation about that here, Markus.”

 

His friend purses his lips and then, eventually, sighs. “Alright, you’re right. You do what you need to do, man.”

 

Connor’s well aware the conversation isn’t actually over, but it _has_ come to a stalemate. He’ll take it for now, gives him time to work things out in his head.

 

“Thank you,” he says, curtly. “Is that all?”

 

Markus looks like he wants to say something, then decides against it. “Yeah, I guess that’s all. You want to catch dinner with Simon and I tonight?”

 

He’s pretty sure he wants to go to his apartment and never come out, honestly.

 

“I’m just going to relax tonight, but thanks,” he replies instead, figuring being dramatic might ignite the situation again.

 

* * *

 

In retrospect, Connor thinks, he probably should’ve known to turn off his phone once he got home. He’s curled up on his old, blue couch, watching some random episode of a TV show he put on to drown out his own thoughts when he hears the telltale buzzing of a message.

 

Then another.

 

He doesn’t bother getting up until another round of rapid-fire notifications come, and it’s enough he vaguely worries something is wrong. Pushing off the light blanket around his waist, he gets up and heads into the kitchen where the phone had been charging, picking it up and reading the notifications.

 

It’s not an emergency, turns out. No, it’s something a little worse.

 

**North**

_(11:25 PM)_

So that guy huh

I thought u only taking point b/c he hates markus but wow con

 

_(11:30 PM)_

I’m just saying it’s a little funny

Didn’t know u liked assholes

2 bad I like girls, huh?

:)

 

Connor just stares at the screen, trying to figure out how to best deal with the situation that’s now in front of him. Does he ignore them? No, he can’t, because he’d rather this conversation happen where she can’t see him blushing and tease him for that, too. Replying is his best bet, but he isn’t sure how to approach it.

 

In the end, he tries the tried and failed method of flat out lying. Again.

 

**Connor**

_(11:36 PM)_

It’s not like that.

_(11:38 PM)_

He’s also not an asshole.

 

He keeps the phone in his pocket as he paces the small living room of his apartment. She doesn’t answer immediately, and he decides to busy himself by feeding his fish. The gallon tank takes up a decent amount of limited space, but it’s worth it for moments like this - moments he needs something to look at to calm himself down.

 

Not that he’s very calm. He jumps a little when the phone buzzes in his pocket and he nearly spills too much fish food into the water.

 

**North**

_(11:42 PM)_

Lol ok

U were falling all over urself

It was kind of cute

Also a little painful to watch

 

Connor grimaces. She must’ve not only overheard but _watched_ the whole exchange, which just strengthens his desire to crawl into a hole. There’s a number of ways he knows he can react to her teasing him, but he goes right to the tried and true method of shutting it all down.

 

**Connor**

_(11:43 PM)_

Turning off my phone now.

 

**North**

_(11:44 PM)_

Ok ok just messing w/ u

 

_(11:45 PM)_

Don’t be mad??

 

It's around when he's just about to actually go through with his threat to turn the phone off when he sees the plea. That’s really the thing, he knows he’s not actually mad, just embarrassed. He doesn’t want her to sit and think he’s mad, that he can’t take a little harmless joking. If anyone, he’s mad at himself, because he should’ve recognized what he was doing as a terrible idea.

 

Sighing, he decides to try to change tactics.

 

**Connor**

_(11:46 PM)_

I’m not. Just tired.

 

_(11:47 PM)_

How did your set go tonight? I know you said you guys were playing.

 

**North**

_(11:48 PM)_

It went amazing thx for asking

Packed house you gotta come one night

Nice try changing the subject btw

Connor frowns at the screen. He considers trying to point out he legitimately _had_ been curious how things had gone – the band was getting bigger, which he’s been happy to hear about – but he also knows she’s right. He goes to type out his weak rebuttal anyway when North keeps steamrolling through, clearly a much faster typer than he.

_(11:49 PM)_

U should ask him out

No ring btw

I looked cause I know u were too busy falling over urself ;)

Never say I don’t do nething 4 u

 

 _Jesus_.

 

“Jesus,” he says outloud to himself and he guesses the fish he's standing in front of still, for good measure.

 

If he hadn’t been blushing before, he knows he is now. Hell, his ears are probably red at this point. There’s that initial, visceral reaction of embarrassment that flows through him, followed by something…different. She’s right, he _hadn’t_ looked, mostly because that felt like a step toward actively wanting to see if he’s available. It’s the kind of thing where it’s better not to know.

 

Except now he does.

 

Now he does and he realizes the news makes him feel relieved. He knows it shouldn’t, it’s not like there isn’t a number of reasons why he isn’t wearing one but is also unavailable, and yet, there it is.

 

Hope he didn’t want or ask for.

 

_(11:57 PM)_

Did u shut ur phone off???

 

He blinks down at his phone, realizing how many minutes he’d just spent in his head. It doesn’t bode well and he knows it. He numbly types a response.

 

**Connor**

_(12:00 AM)_

I’m here.

Look, it’d be a bad idea.

 

**North**

_(12:03 AM)_

Yeah prob is but w/e

U could use a little trouble in ur life con

I know we’ve only known each other 4 like 2 yrs but

Ur too careful sometimes lol

What doesn’t kill u when it blows up in ur face makes u stronger

 

Connor feels an immediate surge to protest the idea he needs trouble. That’s _ridiculous_. He’s had plenty of trouble in his life, especially with _this_ part of his life. She’s right, she hadn’t known him long enough to have seen just how wrecked the last time he decided to put himself out on a limb made him. Only Markus had, and it’s probably why he didn’t push earlier when he realized what was happening.

 

He wants to say all these things, but he also wants to go to bed and pretend the day never happened, so he doesn’t start a conversation he knows he doesn’t want to get into. Not now, not ever.

 

**Connor**

_(12:06 AM)_

I don’t think that’s the actual saying??

 

**North**

_(12:07 AM)_

North original then lol

 

_(12:12 AM)_

Srsly tho it’ll be fine ur pretty good looking for a guy

I wouldn’t just say that either

Like I wouldn’t call u ugly to ur face but u know

 

_(12:14 AM)_

Fuck I don't know I’m just saying I mean it

If he’s into guys he’ll like u

He seems like he might be???????

 

_(12:15 AM)_

Should’ve seen his face when u weren’t looking

 

In the span of the messages she sent, he’s gotten up and then unceremoniously falling onto his bed, his face illuminated by the soft blue glow of his phone. He rereads the wall once, then twice, then once more. What does she mean, he wonders? There’s exactly one moment he’d been looking away and it’d been when he made an absolute fool of himself.

 

Was that not as bad as he thought it was?

 

No, it’d _all_ been terrible, which is why he can’t imagine Hank had been doing anything but wondering why he couldn’t answer a simple question like a normal human being. A part of him itches to ask her to explain, but he very much knows, much like the ring thing, that it’s probably better to stay in the dark.

 

So he doesn’t ask. He doesn’t say anything at all, the hand holding the phone flopping to the side. Maybe she’ll take his non-answer as a hint, he hopes, knowing entirely how that’s not how it works with North.

 

Sure enough, a few minutes later, he feels his phone vibrating again.

 

_(12:23 AM)_

Hey asking 4 a friend

Is it ok to start a betting pool over when ur finally gonna ask him out

Like is there a company rule u are one of the bosses

:)

 

He rolls his eyes at his phone, as if North can see his reaction. The reply to _that_ is very, very simple.

 

**Connor**

_(12:24)_

I'm actually turning off my phone now.

 

**North**

_(12:25)_

Lol so touchy :)

Whatever I’m beat anyway

nite connor

 

**Connor**

_(12:26)_

Goodnight.

 

He shuts the phone off, too, even though he’s sure she’s done winding him up for the night. Puts it on his nightstand and situates himself better on his bed. He didn’t shut some lights off out in the living room area, but he can’t bring himself to care.

 

He just wants to sleep.

 

(He doesn’t, of course, that'd be too easy.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And because it's not an appropriate coffee shop AU without music, here's some music.
> 
> This chapter's named after ["Surviving" - Sondr Ft. Joe Cleere](http://nullrefer.com/?https://youtu.be/JFM3D59czhQ)
> 
> The whole fic's named after ["All the Beds I've Made" - Caroline Spence](http://nullrefer.com/?https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pUjVCjQFj4Q)


	2. Rapt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor continues to fumble his way through what continues to be an ill-advised crush.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha ha ha, the response was a bit crazy (for me, anyway!) in the first chapter, I want to thank you all for reading and leaving me encouraging comments - as I said in my other fic, lord knows it keeps me going whenever I get the doubts creepin in, woof.
> 
> I'm glad you guys all wanted this kind of AU as much as I did. Onwards to the next chapter.
> 
> As per usual, say hi over on twitter where I'm [@dathankconlife](https://twitter.com/dathankconlife)

Connor wakes up late. Late for _him_ , anyway, because his alarm decides to not work. While it’s nice that the rushing around certainly keeps his mind off things, it’s not exactly the best start to the day he can have. Once he’s the bare minimum of presentable for work – he even forgoes dealing with his contacts and just fishes out his glasses instead – he’s out the door, barely pausing to say hello to his elderly neighbor that he passes by.

 

(He does, of course _, at least_ say hello. He’s also pretty sure he promised he’ll visit for dinner soon, but he’s in enough of a rush the conversation’s contents are entirely missed as he’s powerwalking down the stairs.)

 

He still gets there first…barely. Markus pulls up just as he opens the door and he’s just stressed and half asleep enough to startle a little when he calls out a greeting. He turns to find him giving him an odd look.

 

“Oh, hey, Markus,” he says, trying to _desperately_ not sound like he’d nearly ran the entire way to be a little less late. He doesn’t know why he bothers. He’s still breathless from essentially _running_ his usual walk, the sweat on his brow cool against his skin. He wipes at that at least, making a mental note to reassess just how presentable he’s looking after the impromptu exercise.

 

“You alright, there, Con?” Markus asks, looking him over.

 

“Alarm decided not to work and it was one of those nights,” he explains with an embarrassed smile, even though he’s wondering now if he’d ever turned it on at all. As he talks, Markus motions him to go on in first, which he does, with him following in after. “…I might’ve sprinted here.”

 

“You don’t say,” he snorts, and yeah, he _definitely_ needs to check how he looks before everyone else comes in. “You could’ve just called for a ride, you know.”

 

It’s probably sad the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. But here he is, almost certainly looking like a mess, because his default is dealing with it himself. Markus knows this all too well, he points it out and drops it, maybe hoping mentioning it will make him think of it next time.

 

(Probably not, if Connor is being honest.)

 

“I just didn’t think to ask, but you’re right,” he admits, because he knows Markus is a good friend. He doesn’t want him to think he hadn’t called because he thought it’d bother him. “Been a weird morning, sorry.”

 

And a weird night prior, and an even weirder day before that. With things slowing down, he realizes what the day might bring today, too, and immediately feels an unwelcome bloom of anxiety. His conversation with North had only made things worse – for as supportive as she’d been trying to be, he almost wishes she hadn’t mentioned anything she’d observed, because it’s easier to assume all of this is one sided and stupid.

 

Now it just might be _incredibly_ stupid, period, a mistake he can see coming at him from miles away. One he knows he can intentionally dodge and is currently standing and just staring at it with friends on the sideline reassuring him it won’t be so bad.

 

Speaking of.

 

“Are you still not coming out during morning rush?”

 

Connor frowns, not looking up from the prep work he starts to find something to keep himself busy. They’re alone, it’s quiet, of course this is where that conversation they’d been having the day before unpauses. Of course. “I don’t know.”

 

He’s too tired to put up any kind of pretenses for once. Markus is probably giving him one of those sympathetic looks and Connor is just glad he’s not facing him to see it.

 

“Do you want my advice?” he prompts. Connor pushes the glasses up his nose before glancing over his shoulder at him. “Because you know I’ll drop it otherwise.”

 

Stuff like this, Connor knows, is why they’ve been friends so long, despite their wildly different personalities.  He knows he can answer him any way he wants and can be reassured Markus won’t take it personally. It’s why he really, honestly considers the question before exhaling a breath.

 

“Yes.”

 

Why the hell not, at this point? He turns so he’s leaning against the counter, arms crossing against his chest, giving him his full attention.

 

“Just keep doing what you do best. If something’s meant to happen, it will,” he shrugs. “And sorry for my reaction yesterday, I was just surprised. Honestly, it’s just nice to see you interested in someone. It’s a big deal.”

 

It’s good advice and he hates Markus a little for being able to just get right to the heart of it all while barely looking like he’s trying. It makes the floundering he’s been doing since yesterday feel a little pathetic.

 

“He was kind of an ass to you,” Connor allows, because it’s not like he hadn’t _understood_ where the surprise came from.

 

“Everyone has shitty days,” he shrugs, clearly ready to forgive and forget for his sake, if need be. Because that’s the kind of person Markus is. Connor knows he would be doing the same for him in the position they were currently in. “So? You good?”

 

Connor’s still waffling, even though the answer is obvious. He eventually just groans, running his hands down his face. “Seriously, Markus, how bad an idea is this?”

 

Markus just smiles in his easygoing way, though there’s a glint in his eye that’s not usually there. “Well, if it ends up being a _really_ bad one, I’m pretty sure North can take him if I don’t get to him first. I’m sure we could rope Josh into helping.”

 

The comment gets a genuine laugh out of him as he pushes off and gets back to work.

 

“Don’t give her ideas,” he scolds, even as a smile lifts on his face.

 

* * *

 

He’s starting to think he wound himself for nothing, because boy, it sure _looks_ like it. The usual morning rush is sans one very specific person who Connor has been telling himself he isn’t _actually_ looking for and for someone he doesn’t care if he sees, he’s getting antsy as it grows later in the morning and he hasn’t shown up.

 

He tells himself that really, it’s just because he wants to get this over with. There _may_ have been some attempt on his part to be prepared this time, and it’d be a shame to waste all that effort he put into not being an absolute disaster. Despite the growing unease, he plows forward through the work as if nothing is wrong, and he’s at least glad he’s reminded himself he would’ve been miserable hiding out. A few customers specifically catch up with him, even, which he always enjoys while placing orders.

 

He’s sure Hank’s absence isn’t lost on everyone else, Josh included, because it’s clear he’s been clued in It’s not that he’s _angry_ his not-love life is the current source of gossip of the crew keeping the shop afloat, but he does find it all incredibly awkward. Just another distraction to push through, he reminds himself, and manages to stay on task.

 

It helps, feeling not terrible at something.

 

The line dwindles to nothing and he still hasn’t come, and Connor finds himself feeling disappointment, then relief, and back to disappointment in the most pointless ping-pong match his emotions can be doing right now. There’re a million reasons he can come up with on why he couldn’t swing by (some concerning ones, in fact, now that he knows the kind of job he does), but his brain stubbornly sticks on only the ones that involve him reading too much into everything and being an idiot. It’s frustrating.

 

He’s just about to head into the back – there’s no need for him anymore, and he really does have a mountain of things to do – when he hears the little jingle of the door opening. He doesn’t expect it’s him, but he looks over anyway and –

 

It is. Looking less tired than yesterday, Hank enters, pausing to hold open the door for one of the customers juggling a couple of coffees that’d been leaving. Connor wisely uses this moment to stop staring, at least remembering exactly one thing from the mess that had been the day before. He also doesn’t look at anyone else, because he can _at least_ be sure North is side eying it all.

 

There’s no one else in line, so it doesn’t take him long to walk right up to the counter. Connor had assumed the entire morning he’d feel entirely ready for a less than five-minute encounter with someone he barely knows but continues to find attractive. Instead, he feels that uncomfortable hum of anxiety practically vibrating through him. He does his best to mask it with a smile.

 

“Good morning, Hank, welcome to CoffeeLife,” he says, which is the only part of the conversation that he can count on to being easy.

 

“Mornin’. Shit, you look as tired as I feel,” he comments, pausing to peer a little closer at him, and it takes everything in him not to break the gaze reflexively. “You okay?”

 

It’s funny, he went through a few scenarios of this conversation in his head, and none of them included him looking by all accounts asking after his well-being. It also means the bags under his eyes are as pronounced as he thinks they are. Great. Really great. Either way, when someone asks him something like that, he usually brushes it off. This continues to not be a normal circumstance.

 

“Uh – yeah, of course, I’m fine. Insomnia kicked up last night,” he replies, breezily, entirely skipping over the fact he was the very specific focal point of that insomnia. “One of the perks of owning a coffee shop, caffeine is always a step away and I can just say I’m testing the brew when I grab a cup.”

 

He’s talking too much, he can feel it, telling him stuff he probably doesn’t care about. Hank surprises him by letting out a genuine snort of amusement, though, and he realizes he might not be waiting for him to get to the point as much as he thinks he is.

 

“Owner, huh?” he asks, and Connor realizes he likely hadn’t known that. His name tag doesn’t really flash that around and neither does he, unless people ask. “Well, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised you gave me a good suggestion yesterday, then.”

 

“Co-owner,” he corrects, even as his smile gets a little broad at the compliment. “So the drink helped?”

 

“Enough that I’m getting another today,” he confirms, then hesitates, squinting at the menu. Connor bites back a smile.

 

“It was an –“

 

“Americano,” he supplies, cutting him off. There’s a small smirk on his face like he’s proud he figured it out and it’s – well, it’s a little endearing. “I remember. Just had to double check and your damn menu’s huge.”

 

“It’s not as intimidating as it looks once you generally know what you like,” he replies, which earns him a doubtful look. “Anything else?”

 

Hank casts a glance at the glass display of food items next to him. Connor thinks he’s about to ask for something to eat but seems a little frustrated at what he’s looking at. He doesn’t come out and say why, but after the comment about the menu, he has a feeling he doesn’t want to bother picking out something because it’ll take too long. He’s not the first one.

 

Either way, it gives him an idea.

 

It’s probably a terrible one.

 

He rings him up when he declines getting anything else and Hank slips him a five, waving off any attempt at giving him change. He starts making his drink, but he does move away to return to the display case. He knows he doesn’t have much time to decide, so he uses what he knows – mainly, that he isn’t into sweet things, if his choice of coffee speaks for him – and pulls out one of the apple bread slices. It’s good and, more importantly, it’s _simple_.

 

One of Connor’s favorite, too. The change of weather isn’t the only thing he likes about fall. Putting it into a bag, he puts it aside and finishes up the drink.

 

He steels himself (because only _he_ can feel like he needs to be _ready_ for doing something nice, but his anxiety certainly never tries to make any sort of sense) as he heads over with both items in hand. He puts the coffee in front of him first, then holds the bag out for him to take. He lifts an eyebrow, looking at it and then back over at him.

 

“I didn’t order food,” he states the obvious, because obviously he can’t just be one of those people who sees themselves getting something free and not say anything. That’d be too easy.

 

“I know. Free of charge,” he explains, spelling things out clearly and then, in a move he’s sure to regret later when he’s got time to overthink things, he winks at him. “I think you’ll like it. It’ll go good with the drink.”

 

Connor is just waiting for him to be the kind of person who _refuses_ free stuff, because this is the kind of luck he generally has. But he doesn’t, reaching out and taking the bag without any more protests or corrections. What’s unnerving is Hank is quiet after, just staring, and it takes a hell of a lot of willpower on Connor’s part not to look away like he’s been caught doing something wrong.

 

“Thanks,” Hank finally speaks up, and it’s only then that Connor notices he seems legitimately _taken aback_ by the gesture. Good. Right? Good, yes, he decides, because then he can see a softening to his features he’s never seen before on his face, and he knows he’s the one that just caused that. It’s nice. He likes that expression on his face.

 

“You’re welcome. Have a good day, okay?” he remembers to say this time, genuine and earnest.

 

“Uh, yeah, you too,” he replies, and after what feels an _awful_ lot like a few more moments of lingering on Hank’s part, he turns and heads out the door. Connor watches him go, feeling a mix of emotions that he’s not even sure if he can begin to untangle.

 

But.

 

That went well. He thinks that went well? He does his best not to second guess himself, even though he knows that’s coming. For now, he just puts his own money into the cash register for the food he just handed over and helps out with a few more things out in the front area of the store. No one says anything to him, but the first time he catches North’s eye, she smiles broadly at him, and he already knows he’s in for a Conversation again.

 

He’s not sure if he’s dreading that or needing it. It’s probably a little of both.

 

* * *

 

The day is busy enough that his brain doesn’t even have a chance to digest anything that had happened. Which on the best of days is the sort of days he likes, but today? Today he appreciates it more than usual, because he knows himself, he knows how his mind would’ve been turning things over in his head if he’d given it time to do so. He’s also pretty sure if it’d been a slow day, he would’ve fallen asleep, because he’s so exhausted by the time they’re closing and ready to go home and be dead to the world for a while.

 

He either is hiding that well or North doesn’t care as she approaches right before they’re all about to start heading out.

 

“Hey, Connor,” she says, and she has a look on her face that Connor immediately associates with her being up to something. Josh is beside her, bundled up and looking ready to go. Both are looking at him expectantly, which is also a thing he also knows doesn’t bode well. “Come out for drinks with us. Markus is being boring and domestic.”

 

“I can hear you,” Markus calls out from the back.

 

“I was counting on it,” she calls back, running a hand to push back her shock of bright red hair. Her attention is right back on Connor. “Seriously, though, come.”

 

Connor is not a bar person, not even back when he’d been the prime age to enjoy the scene. It’s not even sidestepping what he knows is time to talk to him when he replies, “I think I’m just going to head home, actually.”

 

He’s aware she’s probably not going to take that for an answer, but he tries.

 

“Come on, Con, just for one drink. Your day off is tomorrow,” she points out, helpfully. She is right, of course, and probably already took this into account to use as an argument. “And someone needs to make sure we don’t get into trouble.”

 

Connor is entirely certain the two of them have been and will be fine without him. But she’s still got that look that there’s not actually a debate and he’s still not really in the mood to argue. He sighs, running a tired hand down his face. “As long as it’s close.”

 

“Just down the road,” she promises.

 

Connor can guess where they’re going with that description. Most of the places in the area are simple dive bars, some worse than others, and the closest one he knows of is somewhere directly in the middle of quality. Still, as they enter inside – Connor still very much wearing what passes as business casual in comparison to the laxer outfits Josh and North have on – he can feel a few stares thrown his way. He keeps his gaze firmly down as they file in and walk down the thin space toward the back of the bar. There’s a table tucked away in a corner they claim, and it’s at least boxed in enough to mostly be out of the eye line of the patrons.

 

North buys them a round. At this point, Connor is uncomfortable enough to drink a little, hoping it’ll make this all a little less painful. Besides the awkward atmosphere, after all, he knows what’s coming.

 

“You missed the action today, Josh,” North informs him once they’re all settled in. She looks right at Connor and yes, there it is. He sighs, not even responding until he takes a big gulp of his drink. The stuff is bitter and gross but _boy_ , does he want to start to feel the familiar buzzing. When he puts the drink down, both of them are watching him.

 

“You couldn’t take me to a diner instead to grill me?” Connor asks, looking between them. He still would have to make dinner with how things are going right now, if he’s even going to feel like it by the time he walks home.

 

“We still did want a drink,” she shrugs, sitting back in her lumpy, uncomfortable looking seat. “Marked improvement today, Con, by the way.”

 

“So you really do like that guy?” Josh pipes up. Connor must not mask his grimace at the question well enough, because he looks apologetic immediately, not unlike Markus the day before. “Not that I’m judging. You do you.”

 

He takes another good gulp of his drink. Doesn’t help, not even a little.

 

“Okay, I am never going to be drunk enough for this conversation,” he sighs, not bothering to hide his irritation, because there’s a _reason_ he prefers to remain in the background of things. This kind of attention isn’t anything he particularly enjoys and doesn’t ever look for, but he can see this isn’t going to go away any time soon. After pausing for a moment, he continues, as bluntly as possible, “I find him attractive. He seems nice enough, but I barely know him, so there’s nothing to tell. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

 

Josh puts aside his drink. The looks he’s getting makes him sure he’s at least made it clear he’s unhappy. “Hey, sorry, man. I was honestly just curious. Also just wanted to say if you needed me to do anything, you know. I think we both can say we have your back.”

 

North is nodding along to that. “You’re always so busy doing your goody-goody help everyone routine and then don’t ever seem to let us repay the favor. That’s all I wanted to say about it tonight, anyway.”

 

Connor knows she’s right – Markus had said the same sort of thing to him earlier, and not for the first time, either, that he’s terrible at asking for help. Right now, though, there’s nothing to help. Decent encounter today or not, the plan still isn’t to do anything about it. So he meets them halfway. “If I need something, I’ll ask, I promise.”

 

The tension at the table releases and, thankfully, the entire conversation is dropped after. He excuses the decision to drink more than usual as him just keeping up with his friends and not the fact that admitting things outloud has him _thinking_ again.  Alcohol is _pretty_ great at combating that, as it turns out. Especially in quantities he isn’t used to even a little bit.

 

Josh taps out and heads home before the two of them, and really, that should’ve been his own stopping point. It isn’t. While he’s not wasted, exactly, by the end of the night, he is _definitely_ drunk. Add his earlier exhaustion and it’s left him looking a bit of a mess - pale cheeks long since flushed, the top buttons of his shirt undone a little because at some point he decided to undo them when things started to feel stuffy. The room’s spinning enough that he’s had his head down for a minute or two to try to make it stop. This is probably what tips North off as to how he’s doing.

 

“Looks like I’m taking you home tonight,” she realizes, and he feels her nudge his arm. “I think it’s time to cut you off, Connor.”

 

“M’Fine,” he mumbles, lifting his head. Still spinning a little. That’s probably not a great sign. He squints behind his glasses at North, who is looking at him with some small amount of concern. He smiles, like that’s going to make her not worry.

 

“Can you walk?” she queries, standing and offering him a hand out of the booth. He can’t really answer until he’s upright - it takes him a few moments of getting his equilibrium back in order, but the dizziness fades and he feels mostly okay. Or he tells himself he’s mostly okay, anyway. He even nods, but it’s a very small nod, because he’s a little worried jostling anything might make the spinning get worse again. “Okay. You are going to wait directly outside and I am going to pay for the tab and be out in a second. Understand?”

 

He barely nods again, then concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other toward the exit. It’s surprisingly effective, despite making him likely look ridiculous to the patrons still milling around at the bar and scattered among the seated areas. It’s easier to ignore them this time, at least, because he’s staring at his feet, only pausing to push open the door outside.

 

It’s dark out – no big surprise there. There’s a light mist of rain falling that makes the already cool temperature drop to a less tolerable one. He shivers against the wind that blows past him, stumbling to the side of the door and leaning heavily against the wall there.

 

Having the stability helps. He’s less concerned about falling on his face, at least, which is a step up from before. Still, it’s raining, and he’s cold, and where is North? He frowns to himself, wondering if she’s in there having a conversation with the bartender before she left. They seemed to know each other, though he can’t be sure. He’s also aware his own sense of time might be skewed, that maybe he’s only been waiting for a minute instead of a couple.

 

He just ends up deciding to be patient, because he has to be. He’s not drunk enough to not realize attempting to walk home isn’t the best idea. So he waits.

 

And waits.

 

“…Connor?”

 

He honestly has no idea where the voice comes from at first. He looks up too quick and pays for it, another wave of dizziness making his senses swim. He shakes it off after a moment and looks around, just in time to see a familiar figure approaching.

 

He just stares.

 

“You’re Connor, right? The coffee shop?”

 

Distantly, he thinks this is where he should be panicking, because of all the bars in the city, he’s apparently been taken to the one that Lieutenant Hank Anderson apparently goes to. Instead, unbidden, a bubble of laughter bursts out of him, because no, this is _perfect_. This is exactly the cap to his night he should’ve been waiting for.

 

Hank comes to a stop right in front of him, concern etching across his features. He has no right, honestly, to be worried, to be checking up on him.

 

“’Course it’s you,” Connor says in an almost _accusatory_ way, lifting a hand and pressing it firmly on his chest. There’s no effort to push him away, though, and he just keeps it there, flat against the rough fabric of his shirt. Hank doesn’t back away, either, but he does look confused with a healthy side of surprised. Connor is about to say something but hesitates, remembering the kind of person he’s talking to. The hand on his chest curls around his shirt. “Are you going to arrest me?”

 

The confusion only grows on Hank’s face. “Did you do something wrong?”

 

Connor is aware he’s done a _number_ of things wrong, actually, including agreeing to go to get drinks in the first place. He squints, trying to formulate words. He’s usually good at words, but nothing helpful comes to him easily. In the end, all he manages out is a simple, “Yes?”

 

Apparently it’s Hank’s turn to laugh. He feels the rumble underneath his palm. It’s nice. Being close to him like this is…nice. “I _very_ much fucking doubt that, Connor.”

 

He’s about to step closer, start _insisting_ , maybe, when he is very _rudely_ interrupted by a sharp, “Woah, hey, holy shit.”

 

He stumbles backwards a few seconds later, contact broken suddenly, and he has no idea why initially. Once the shock wears off, he realizes someone has his arm and following that sensation, he finds North has grabbed hold of him and is pulling him right over to her. He smiles at her.

 

“North, look who’s here,” he announces, motioning to Hank, as if going ‘see, look, look at this nightmare happening right now’. Matter-of-factly, he adds, “I think he’s going to arrest me.”

 

He sees North look up and right toward Hank. Connor looks over too and he’s stepped away, which is disappointing, especially since he can’t close the space again with the death grip on his arm right now. Hank lets out an audible exhale and he clarifies, exasperated, “I’m not _arresting_ him, I was just making sure he was alright.”

 

Connor is about to respond, but North immediately cuts him off.

 

“Sorry, we were celebrating a birthday a little too hard tonight,” she explains, and Connor isn’t really with it enough to point out she is lying. “I got the short straw to bring him home, the Uber’s already on its way. Thank you for checking up on him, I’m sure he’ll appreciate it tomorrow.”

 

This all seems to placate Hank.

 

“It was nothing,” he reassures, rubbing the side of his neck. “…Uh, just take care on your way home. It's getting late.”

 

“He’ll get home safely,” she promises, and with a surprising amount of strength, she tugs Connor to the side with her so he can pass them. “Good night.”

 

And he takes the opportunity to go. Connor watches him go and thinks maybe he should say something, but nothing comes up by the time he disappears into the bar.

 

“Fuck,” North exhales and Connor feels her death grip loosen a little. She guides him back to the wall, which he leans against gratefully. “Shit, Connor, you owe me big, you know that?”

 

There's an awareness, on some level, that she’s right. It’s just currently under levels that are keeping him alert and not puking on her shoe, which are taking priority right now. When he doesn’t answer, she just sighs and leans up against the wall too.

 

Most of what she told Hank had been bullshit except the part of her making sure he got home safely. He vaguely remembers her going so far as to deposit him into bed. He imagines it was a process, though he has very little memory of it besides her swearing the entire way up. She does all that and then she’s gone, and he’s curled up on his side.

 

He thinks about how he should get up to feed his fish.

 

He barely stays awake long enough to finish that thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, have a chapter title song.
> 
>  
> 
> [Rapt - Karen O](http://nullrefer.com/?https://youtu.be/oTvqMfvVWYQ)
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Learn to Let Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fallout from the night before springs opportunities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this came out faster than I expected. But hey, no looking a gift horse in the mouth, right? (the hell does that saying mean, anyway...)
> 
> Anyway, thank you!! For all the kind words, kudos, bookmarks, and comments on twitter. I'm continued to be very happy to see people being Enthusiastic about this, because I'm having a blast writing it.
> 
> As a note, this chapter does have the additional tag of **mention of emotional abuse** , which I need to find an appropriate tag for, so for now just be aware, eh??

To say Connor wakes up feeling like death is an understatement.

 

Sunlight pours into his room and all he can do is bury his face into his pillow. His head is pounding enough that it’s making him nauseous. It takes a few minutes for him to muster up the energy to sit up – very much facing away from his windows – intent on getting to the bathroom. He’s just about to get up when his gaze happens to fall on his nightstand. A glass of water and a bottle of Advil is sitting there, waiting for him.

 

He stares at it for a long moment, confused as to why it’s there, and then he realizes. Remembers.

 

North.

 

His memory is foggy, which is disconcerting. But he can bring up flashes of her dealing with him the entire way home. He remembers half-dragging him to bed. He remembers –

 

Oh.

 

 _Oh_.

 

A jolt of an impressive mix of anxiety, mortification, and horror grips him the second the events of the night before start trickling back to him. He’s nauseous for a while new, fresh hell kind of reason. He can’t even remember the entire conversation, but he’s sure he’d crossed some small boundaries he shouldn’t have.

 

He remembers the confusion on Hank’s face, too. Because he’d been acting like an _idiot_.

 

“Oh, god,” he groans, putting his face in his hands. It was like he took a step forward and about thirty steps back in the matter of a single night.

 

He considers curling up and just not leaving bed for the day. He actually _does_ just that for a while after downing a full dose of painkillers. Eventually, though, he forces himself up and out of his room, knowing that while he technically can stay there, he probably shouldn’t. He takes a shower in hopes that it’d help (only marginally), makes himself some food to attempt to ease his queasiness (this helps a little more, especially when he realizes the time and knows how long he’d gone without food that isn’t bar peanuts), and only then does he think to check his phone.

 

The sight of the wall of text messages is becoming an unsurprising sight. He falls heavily onto his couch, slouching into the cushions, and unlocks his phone to scroll up to the beginning of it all.

 

**North**

_(Yesterday, 11:45PM)_

Good morning which is when I assume u will be reading this

So good news and bad news

 

_(Yesterday, 11:46PM)_

Now u might be wondering if seeing hank at the bar last night was like

Some kind of alcohol induced nightmare

Bad news buddy, that definitely happened

 

Connor grimaces, sighing. He hasn't exactly been  _doubting_  the memory, but yeah, he's well aware he'd been drunk enough to need her to confirm it. That all of what he remembers had been exactly what he thinks he remembers.

 

It being a nightmare would've been too easy. This is never easy.

 

_(Yesterday, 11:47PM)_

Good news is I think I stopped u from coming on to him????

He was mostly just worried and confused when I got out

Which hey he was worried about u!!

Thats something right lol

 

_(Yesterday, 11:48PM)_

Ur welcome btw

 

Connor hesitates after reading this, staring at the string of messages. He can’t – he can’t exactly remember what had been said between them. Something about Hank arresting him? Which didn’t seem right, because at worst he’d been publicly intoxicated, he guesses, but he’s sure he hadn’t been causing trouble for anyone but himself.

He makes a mental note to ask North about it. He probably doesn’t want to know, but he’s going to need to be facing him again at some point.

 

_(Yesterday, 11:55PM)_

Oh and if he asks we were celebrating a birthday

Not sure how much u remember

Sry it was a stupid excuse but I had to come up with something

 

_(12:05AM)_

Anyway hope u dont feel too shitty 2day

Honestly it wasn’t as bad as I know u are prob thinking it was

 

Oh, he _very much_ doubts that. He can at least remember there’d been enough time between the start of the conversation and the time North stepped in that he probably put his foot in his mouth. Did he grab his shirt? He thinks he did, can almost remember the feel of the scratchy fabric. He’s not actually sure he’s ever been quite as close as they’d been standing then, and he hadn’t even been sober to appreciate it.

 

His phone comes to life as he lets that sink in and he blinks, looking down. It’s North again, sending a few more rapid-fire texts.

 

_(12:30PM)_

Hey so I don’t know if u read my other msgs yet but

He came in just now

He asked me how u were when he saw u werent working

Seemed disappointed u weren’t there ; )

 

Connor blinks, staring at the tiny screen, despite it not doing his headache any favors right now. It’s not that he’s entirely surprised he’s asking after him, but it still makes a warm feeling spread through him anyway. It’s unwelcome, honestly, when he _also_ knows he’s worried about him because he’d made an ass out of himself. He can’t even be sure if North is right or if she’s reading into things.

 

He both wishes and is glad he’s not there – that is, until she starts texting again.

 

_(12:32PM)_

I may have talked u up a little

Nothing 2 embarrassing I promise lol

Or even a lie so??

Anyway text me when ur out of ur coma

Don’t make me send someone 2 check on u lol

 

Connor is, _at best_ , an average speed typer with his phone. Apparently he can push that speed up _quite a bit_ when he actually wants to, his fingers flying across the tiny touchscreen.

 

**Connor**

_(12:33PM)_

Wait, what??? What did you say to him???

_(12:37PM)_

North?? Hello??

 

**North**

_(12:40PM)_

Oh hey

Sleeping beauty awakens lol

 

**Connor**

_(12:41PM)_

Please tell me you didn’t say anything embarrassing.

 

**North**

_(12:42PM)_

Relax dude

I told u nothing bad

Just that u were a nice guy and that I liked u as a boss

 

**Connor**

_(12:43PM)_

That’s it???

 

_(12:45PM)_

North????

**North**

_(12:46PM)_

Well ok

1 other thing

He definitely thought I was ur girlfriend??

So I told him we were just friends

 

_(12:47PM)_

(After laughing really loudly at the assumption, sry lol)

Then I may have mentioned u were single

But that’s it

Not even in a weird way just conversationally

U know me

 

His mouth goes dry. There’s a part of him that immediately wants to ask: how did he react? Did he react at all? Because she’s right, he _does_ know North. He knows she’d have picked up on something if it were there. But does he want to know if she did?

 

 _Does_ he, honestly?

 

She doesn’t follow up for once. He waits a little while, waits for her to egg him on, but she doesn’t. He recognizes space when he’s given it. He recognizes in that space that there’s _definitely_ something remaining unsaid and he can see she’s going to keep it to herself unless he asks. It’s all entirely on him now whether or not he pries.

 

Sighing, he leans his head back against the couch’s cushions. It’s ironic he’s thinking about all of this in this room in particular. Sometimes it feels like the arguments and screaming matches echo around him here, like the negativity has somehow imprinted itself into the very walls. The scars of four years of being made to feel worthless - practically subhuman - is still there, as much as he’s convinced everyone that he’s okay now. It scares him, the idea that things could get bad again if he opens himself up. It’d been so easy to get him to that point. He hadn’t even noticed it until it was at its worse, until Markus stepped in and made him see what it was doing to him.

 

And that’s it, really. Fear. He’s scared. He’s been staying away from the fire completely to protect himself, huddling in the cold and telling himself its fine, but it’s drawing him back in again. It’s not really about Hank, honestly – this, whatever it is between them, could ( _probably will_ ) lead to nothing and still be a problem. He’s clearly being tempted to get close enough to get burned again, even though he’d spent so long convincing himself he is happier alone.

 

He’s not really happy, which he knows is a thought that’s been lingering in the back of his mind lately. He knows he isn’t, no matter how much he tries to compartmentalize it. He’s not happy and it’s a fact that he can’t look away from now that he’s staring at it. So what’s he going to do about that?

 

Without thinking, he grabs the phone next to him, which he’d discarded when he realized she wasn’t going to keep typing. Takes a deep breath as he opens up her texts. Maybe North’s general air of recklessness is starting to rub off on him. He’s typing before he even realizes it.

 

**Connor**

_(1:35PM)_

Did he react at all?

 

And he waits, because he knows she’s at work. Stands and busies himself with cleaning the fish’s tank, since it’s a day off chore he usually does that he hasn’t yet. It’s the kind of activity he needs – calming and routine – to settle his nerves. He doesn’t even hear the telltale buzz when it finally comes in, only spotting the message when he checks it after he’s all done.

 

**North**

_(1:38PM)_

I was wondering if you were going to ask

; )

 

_(1:39PM)_

So he looked surprised

Like really noticeably

And I basically just said something like

Yeah I was surprised 2, the guys I know usually fall over guys like u

(actually true btw, lol)

 

(1:40PM)

He got really flustered at me after that??

Which was as fucking funny as watching u tbh

 

_(1:43PM)_

Anyway after that he was in a real hurry to end it

I didn’t want to push so that’s all I said

I know what is and isn’t my place u know?

 

Despite everything, Connor smiles at that. He knows he never quite switched his mindset of being marooned from people, but lately it feels like maybe he’s getting out of that. Disaster last night aside, he had been having some fun up until that moment. More than he’d expected.

 

He likes to think it’s a good step. One in a direction that he needs to take.

 

**Connor**

_(1:48PM)_

I know.

Sorry for freaking out.

And thanks for making sure I got home.

 

**North**

_(1:52PM)_

Hey don’t mention it

But maybe ease off on the drinks next time

Cause holy shit ur heavier than u look

 

**Connor**

_(1:53PM)_

: ) Get back to work.

**North**

_(1:54PM)_

Lol ok boss

 

He puts the phone aside, feeling a decision solidifying in him that, for once, he doesn’t feel a low current of anxiety over. He’s not sure how long that’s going to last, but he’s going to take it for now.

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t see him for a few days.

 

Three, to be exact. It’s not the first time he doesn’t pop in, though there’s some part of Connor that wonders if he’d been spooked away somehow. It’s a thought he thinks should upset him a little more, but it doesn’t, not exactly. Markus had been right: whatever is meant to happen, will happen. He also trusts North had only dropped what she dropped conversationally – if he never comes back again because of that, well, so be it. It feels like a better way of handling this entire situation, to try to look at this all rationally.

 

Besides, if he stops coming? It certainly saves Connor from being disappointed in a very public way. As it stands, he can swallow it and move on if need be, which sucks but hey, less embarrassment.

 

Honestly, he’s not even looking for him when he finally does pop in. He’s checking stock in the afternoon of the fourth day when he hears the telltale sound of the bell over the door announcing a customer. He glances over just out of curiosity and because he’s one of two out in front right now and his gaze catches his. He feels a lump in his throat form immediately.

 

Well then.

 

Hank looks tired again, he distantly notes. The sort of tired that’s visible all over. Or maybe it’s something else? He glances away before he can consider further, putting things aside so he can be at the register as he steps up to the counter. Connor takes a deep, grounding breath right beforehand.

 

He’s glad he did.

 

“Nice to see you on your feet.”

 

Okay, they’re just going to start with _that_ conversation. That’s _great_. That’s fine.

 

“It was touch and go for a while,” he jokes with a _very_ strained laugh, not even pretending like he’s being professional here. He’s grateful he’s here at a very quiet time of day, with only one or two people loitering in the actual vicinity, wrapped up whatever work they’re choosing to do in the shop. The closest one even has headphones on, blasting loud enough that Connor’s been able to faintly hear it for the last hour. He keeps his voice down anyway. “…But yes, I’m fine. Wasted my usual day off nursing a headache for the mistake, but.”

 

Hank looks sympathetic. “Yeah, uh, that girl told me. The one you were with that night.”

 

“North,” he supplies. “She told me you were asking how I was.”

 

Connor swears some bit of embarrassment crosses over his expression, but he hopes the smile on his face says he doesn't actually mind or think it's weird. He’s glad he’d cared enough, as awkward as this all is.

 

“Yeah, well, you know,” he begins, pauses, then offers one of his small smiles in return. “You were nice enough to give me free shit, felt like the least I could do.”

 

Right. It honestly feels like ages ago that that had happened, when it’d only been a few days. The shift in conversation to something far more comfortable instantly makes this a much easier conversation to be having. It also brings up a question he wants to ask – one that he does with a not insignificant amount of eagerness. “So was I right? Did you like it?”

 

It’d _may_ have been his terrible attempt at flirting, but he also legitimately prides himself in knowing his customers. He _wants_ to have been right.

 

“I honestly had my fucking doubts, but – yeah, it wasn’t bad. Apple something, right?” he asked, lifting a brow. Connor nodded. “Yeah, thought so. Don’t really do the pumpkin shit this time of year, but apple’s pretty good.”

 

That catches his attention immediately. “Wait. Do you dislike the drinks or just pumpkin in general?”

 

Hank is a bit surprised at the odd question, to the point he actually pauses before answering, “I like pumpkin alright, I wouldn’t say no to pumpkin pie or anything, but the drinks are –“

 

He trails off. Connor senses he’s trying not to be insulting, since he is literally standing in a coffee shop that’s advertising pumpkin-related drinks.

 

“Disgusting,” Connor agrees entirely, though he’s still smiling. “Most of them, anyway, but not ours. It’s one of my favorite drinks, so I take it seriously. I made the blend myself.”

 

“Uh-huh,” Hank replies, squinting at him and sounding doubtful. This feels like a challenge that Connor is not going to ignore.

 

“Tell you what - I make you one. You don’t like it, you don’t have to buy it,” he offers. “I promise you won’t hurt my feelings if it still isn’t something you’re into. I get it.”

 

He’s proven to people he’s not just talk about the blend they sell before. He likes the idea Hank might be one of them.

 

“You’re fucking serious,” he realizes, then huffs out a laugh. His expression lightens a little when he laughs. Connor realizes that’s what he’d been picking up on earlier – he hadn’t just looked tired, he looked…upset, maybe? It seems like it’s gone, at least for now, in the face of his enthusiasm. “Alright. Impress me.”

 

And now it’s _definitely_ a challenge.

 

One he can only win as long as Hank isn’t lying about not disliking pumpkin, admittedly, but. He just knows the syrup is why most people don’t like it – too sweet, too manufactured tasting – but after a lot of his own experimenting he thinks he’s found the right mix. It certainly is the most requested line of drinks they have right now, which he likes to think is saying something.

 

He makes the hot version of the drink and tosses in about as much milk as he usually would put in for Hank. He puts it in front of him and just waits. Hank takes the hint and grabs it, taking a sip. Connor likes to think he’s good at reading certain expressions. It takes a moment, but he sees it – the vague surprise, mouth just slightly upticking – and he _knows_.

 

“Good?” he prompts, smugness starting to seep in already.

 

Hank rolls his eyes, putting the drink down to pull out his wallet. “You’re a fucking bad influence, you know.”

 

Connor is pretty sure _no one_ has ever called him that in his entire life. It feels a little like a badge of pride as he hands over the bill, waving away his attempt, again, to give him any kind of change.

 

“I like to think I’m expanding people’s tastes,” he replies, pleasantly, which isn’t even a lie. “Is that all?”

 

“Yeah, I’m good,” he answers.

 

And he looks like he’s about to leave, because the transaction is done. Connor can see the window of what he’s been thinking about doing for days now closing in front of him. Don’t think, just do, he tries to tell himself, even though thinking is _literally_ all he does.

 

“One last thing,” he speaks up at what feels like the very last moment, and it makes Hank pause and look at him. It’s impressive how rapidly he’s losing his nerve, so he just sort of comes out with it. “I did want to apologize to you somehow for what I know was probably an embarrassing display the other night. I was wondering if you’d let me treat you to lunch?”

 

It’s an excuse. A horrible, _blatant_ excuse at that, because a few minutes of inconvenience does not warrant this level of an apology. Hank must see right through it, because he’s got this look on his face that tells him he doesn’t buy the reasoning for a second. Whether or not he reads more into it than he’s making an excuse, Connor doesn’t know, which is a whole other issue entirely.

 

“Shit, Connor, you really don’t even need to apologize to begin with, you know. Really wasn’t that big a deal,” Hank points out after what feels like an endless pause, eyebrows furrowing.

 

He’s ready for the response (because he knows it’s true, he knows that). He steels himself as he counters, “I know, but I want to.”

 

He hopes to convey a very clear message in his tone: _‘please, just go along with this, I don’t know how else to ask’._ Connor makes sure there’s eye contact when he insists. Hopes – he doesn’t know. He just _hopes_.

 

“This week’s gonna be pretty shitty,” Hank admits, and there it is, he’s readying himself for the inevitable no. The awkward let down. He’s been prepared for this since the moment he formulated this as an idea, but he feels a coil of disappointment building in him already. “…But I can probably manage Friday? Dinner would probably be better, too.”

 

Honestly, he’s not sure if he even heard him right.

 

“Dinner,” he repeats, as if confirming to himself. Hank makes no attempt to correct him, so he assumes that yes, he not only just said yes but he also just said yes and upgraded it to dinner. He realizes in that moment that he didn’t think to plan beyond the offer, so when he continues, he’s floundering a little in the process. “Yeah, uh, of course, that’s completely fine. Oh! Wait, hold on –“

 

He glances around for paper and pen. He gets the pen – well, a marker – easy enough, but the paper, not so much. He eventually just grabs a nearby napkin, writing his number down, careful to make sure the numbers are legible. He caps the marker, then holds the napkin out to him with what feels like the last ounce of his boldness.

 

“My number. So we can plan? Or if anything changes,” he explains, almost proud of himself that he says it in a way that’s remarkably calm. A way that denotes he is entirely _okay_ and he isn’t having the spike of adrenaline from the shock he’s still in.

 

He feels like he’s pushing his luck. He probably is. Still, Hank takes the napkin without a word, folds it, and pockets it. After exchanging their usual pleasantries, he heads out, leaving with the drink Connor had convinced him to buy and his number in his pocket. Markus steps up next to him after he’s gone, the only witness to what just happened.

 

“I’m impressed, I think he may have just one-upped your attempt to ask him out,” he remarks with a quiet chuckle.

 

“Holy shit,” Connor breathes out under his breath in response, clutching onto the counter because that adrenaline just up and leaves him the second Hank is gone.

 

 _Holy shit_ , he repeats in his head, wondering what the hell he’d just gotten himself into. He’s starting to realize he didn’t go into it with any real hope of him saying yes. The fact that he did, well –

 

He’s not entirely sure if he’s processing it yet.

 

“Let me know if you want to raid my closet,” Markus says, clapping him on the shoulder and moving on.

 

Connor takes the next customer, who steps up soon after. He does everything correctly but remembers none of it in his preoccupation.

 

* * *

 

Connor is wholly prepared to ignore his phone tonight. He hears it beep as he’s starting to get comfortable enough to fall asleep and his automatic assumption is two people: North, who had to have heard what’s going on by now, or Markus, who he knows is going to get himself involved.

 

It ends up being neither, because another message comes in, far slower than he rapid pace of both his friends, and he’s passing by it to head to bed anyway. He peers at what’s there and raises an eyebrow.

 

**Unknown**

_(11:30PM)_

Hey

 

_(11:40PM)_

Shit I hope this is the right number

 

Connor, in fact, isn’t sure who the texts are from. It’s a number he doesn’t recognize and his list of friends who’d have his number are about all the people he’d expect to be getting messages from. He grabs the phone and fires a quick message back.

 

**Connor**

_(11:55PM)_

Who are you looking for?

 

He continues with his usual routine then – brushing his teeth, washing his face. He hears the phone vibrate as he’s tossing on the boxers and undershirt he usually wears to bed. He sighs, sleepily running a hand through his hair, and wanders over to grab the phone again, then takes it to bed, curling up under his covers. He’s just waiting for it to be someone decidedly not him as he looks at the reply.

 

**Unknown**

_(12:05AM)_

Connor

 

He stares at the phone, surprised. There’s really no one else he can think of that wouldn’t know his number, even if they got a new one, so he can rule out most people.

 

Except one.

 

The one he gave his number to today.

 

Suddenly he’s wide awake.

 

**Connor**

_(12:08AM)_

Hank??

 

**Unknown**

_(12:11AM)_

Yeah

 

_(12:13AM)_

Your number got smudged on the napkin

 

_(12:14AM)_

Pain in the fucking ass

 

Connor can’t help but find all of this surreal. Hank hadn’t even _registered_ in his head before this because he never would’ve expected him to send him _anything_ this quickly. He shifts so he’s on his side, trying his best not to rapidly type in response. The last thing he wants to do is come off as too eager.

 

He wastes time by adding his number to his contacts and putting a name to it.

 

**Connor**

_(12:16AM)_

Sorry about that, I’m glad you figured it out.

The markers can be runny sometimes.

 

**Hank**

_(12:17AM)_

It’s fine

_(12:21AM)_

I realized I didn’t give you my number when I left…

So here it is

 

_(12:23AM)_

In case something comes up

 

He bites back a smile at that. It’s a little weird communicating like this, but he can practically hear that noticeable edge in his voice when he’s…teasing, he guesses, would be the best word.

 

**Connor**

_(12:24AM)_

And you know you have the right number too. : )

 

**Hank**

_(12:27AM)_

Shit

 

_(12:28AM)_

I just saw what time it is

 

_(12:29AM)_

Did I wake you up?

 

The truthful answer is – well, yes. He is awake now when he’d been in the pleasant half-asleep stupor before all of this happened. But he also doesn’t want Hank to not text him, so he decides it’s one of those things that are better left unsaid. He vastly prefers being curled up in bed talking to him, anyway.

 

To say the least.

 

**Connor**

_(12:30AM)_

No, I was awake.

 

**Hank**

_(12:31AM)_

Insomnia?

 

Of course he remembers something he’d simply said in passing. It helps it makes for an easy excuse, too, which he isn’t sure he could’ve trusted his brain to immediately come up with.

 

**Connor**

_(12:32AM)_

Yeah, little bit.

Are you at work?

 

**Hank**

_(12:33AM)_

No

 

_(12:34AM)_

Trapped under my dog

Don’t feel like pushing him off

 

There’s a lot of ways he imagined Hank responding to his question. This is not one of them, not in the least.

 

**Connor**

_(12:35AM)_

Dog???

 

**Hank**

_(12:35AM)_

Yeah, hold on…

 

There’s no answer after that, not at first. He actually wonders if Hank has fallen asleep, but it turns out, no, apparently, he’s been taking a picture. It’s not the best one and it’s an awkward angle, but he can clearly see what he means – the camera is pointed down at his lap, and there is a giant beast of a dog just laying across it, so big that it doesn’t fit entirely in the picture.

 

Saint Bernard, he guesses, from the looks of it. He’s adorable.

 

**Connor**

_(12:39AM)_

I’m jealous, I love dogs. I barely got permission to own fish here.

What’s his name?

 

**Hank**

_(12:40AM)_

Sumo

 

**Connor**

_(12:41AM)_

Well, give him a good pat on the head for me.

Maybe I’ll send you an exciting picture of my fish tomorrow.

Well, today, I guess??

 

It is getting late, he knows this, as much as he wants to just keep talking. There’s some ridiculous part of him that feels like if he ends this conversation now, that’s it, this will never happen again, and he will have wasted his chance. A conversation he hadn’t even started, for the record, because he’s aware this could’ve ended at the point Hank explained why he texted in the first place.

 

But he’s still talking.

 

Literally, he can see Hank typing, the little “…” showing in the text box.

 

**Hank**

_(12:43AM)_

Looking forward to it

 

Connor smiles. Joking or not about how much he can possibly be looking forward to a picture of a couple well cared for fish, that feels like permission to send him something in the nebulous _later on_ of the day. That feels like this isn’t some kind of one-off thing.

 

It makes him feel better, somewhat. He shifts a little in bed again, willing himself to type what he knows he needs to at this point.

 

**Connor**

_(12:45AM)_

Going to try to sleep now.

Think I’m starting to get tired.

 

**Hank**

_(12:48AM)_

I’m that boring huh

 

It’s another self-deprecating joke, he guesses. He can let this go. Honestly, he should let this go, joke back, maybe. Instead, he starts replying, refusing to allow himself to second guess what he’s about to say.

 

Just one more small act of boldness for the day, he supposes. What can that hurt?

 

**Connor**

_(12:50AM)_

No, you’re actually the exact opposite.

Which is why I need to say goodnight.

Maybe see you later?

 

**Hank**

_(12:54AM)_

Not sure

 

_(12:56AM)_

Hope so though

 

It feels like he’d been typing for a lot longer than that first message indicated. Connor tries not to read into it, tries not to hope he’d been maybe considering saying something more substantial before losing his nerve. He certainly understands the feeling, he’s currently second guessing being so forward. Not that he can take it back anymore, but.

 

Regardless, he _also_ wonders if he should read into the second text. He ultimately decides to think about that when he’s got a few hours of sleep under his belt, because if he starts now, he knows he’s probably not going to stop.

 

**Connor**

_(12:51AM)_

Well, have a good day either way.

Goodnight.

 

**Hank**

_(12:52AM)_

Night

 

It takes him a minute or two to stop staring at the phone and plug it in to charge. He settles once that’s done, wondering if he’s going to sleep at all now. Sleep surprisingly does take him after a little while. He’s tired when he wakes up, but not exhausted, and that’s enough.

 

He makes sure to take a picture of the tank before he leaves. Doesn’t send it immediately – it’s early, he doesn’t want to wake Hank up if he’s sleeping – but he will later.

 

Because he _can_ now.

 

It’s quite a feeling, realizing that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title grabbed from [Learn to Let Go by Kesha](http://nullrefer.com/?https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nCvpYVDrc8w).
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	4. Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The not-date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW THIS CHAPTER KIND OF GOT AWAY FROM ME (whistles at that word count).
> 
> I didn't quite feel Right cutting off the last part of this chapter, so I assumed you all would forgive me for taking a little more time writing a longer-than-usual thing instead. As always, thank you for the kind comments here and on twitter, kudos, bookmarks, subs...yanno the drill. Continues to mean a Whole Lot to me, I tell ya what. 
> 
> And as per usual, find me over on twitter, my handle is [@dathankconlife](https://twitter.com/dathankconlife). I generally just flail a lot about Hankcon and other DBH nerdery. /SHRUGS

When North doesn’t accost him the second she comes into work, Connor realizes Markus has kept mum about the whole thing he saw the day before. As much as he’s _grateful_ his friend values his privacy, he realizes very quickly that this means he’s going to have to tell her _himself_ at some point. It’s something he knows he wants to do but also realizes the likelihood of it being awkward. The latter reasoning is enough for him to put it off for now, going about his day in an entirely normal way.

 

Hank doesn’t end up showing up. Connor’s not entirely surprised – with the offer of dinner, the whole _‘this week is going to suck’_ preface he’d made earlier is something he assumes is actually true. Still, when the afternoon rolls around and he has a minute to slow down, he does pull out his phone, attaching the picture he’d taken earlier to the message. It’s a decent shot inside the tank, which he’s always been proud of in terms of upkeep.

 

**Connor**

_(2:20PM)_

As promised.

 

He considers mentioning their names – because of course he’s named them, pets are pets – but decides against it. He’s tip-toeing around, trying to not look as goofy and nerdy as he knows he probably comes across when it comes to something like this. Markus would probably tell him to just be himself, especially since that’s apparently working for him so far somehow, but –

 

Maybe that’s not going to be enough for what’s happening? What they’re doing isn’t exactly designated as a date, as stupidly obvious as he feels like it might be. Maybe it isn’t. All the more reason to put his best foot forward when push comes to shove.

 

Pocketing the phone, he ignores it for the rest of the day. Perhaps mirroring Hank’s day, his own is hectic and more than a little frustrating, leaving him absolutely wiped by the end of it. He barely remembers to ask Markus if he wouldn’t mind having him over for dinner, which Markus immediately picks up as what he’s really asking.

 

(To talk, mostly. But Markus had also offered his closet and that feels like a good thing to take him up on, because Connor can’t remember the last time he bought clothes that weren’t specifically for work. It’s fact that feels like a problem.)

 

He all but collapses onto his couch when he gets home, not even bothering to kick off his shoes, burying his face into one of the cushions and sighing. He should order food for himself, he thinks, because cooking seems like a monumental task. He should check his personal cell, too, for a message he’s not entirely sure is even going to be there. The thing about sending someone a picture of a fish tank with fish is most normal people probably don’t have much to say about it beyond ‘those sure are fish’. A statement that, while true, is certainly not much of a conversation starter.

 

There are three messages waiting for him.

 

**Hank**

(3:00PM)

Not bad

 

Which is, again, about the response he’d been expecting.  He’s been humored, it’s okay. The other messages, though?

 

**Hank**

_(4:30PM)_

Couldn’t get away today…

 

_(4:33PM)_

Sorry, I wanted to

 

…Messages that are infinitely more interesting for him to unpack, honestly. He forces himself to focus on ordering food before he even tries, switching to the delivery app on his phone and ordering pizza. If this were a normal night, he knows he would’ve agonized over the choice and what he feels like eating, but tonight?

 

Pizza is fine.

 

After putting in the order, he opens up the texts again, shifting on the couch so he’s laying on his back. He rereads the two messages again. Separate from the apology, the first text is…innocuous, really. He’d mentioned he might show up and didn’t and says as much. With the apology, however?

 

Is it crazy to think he’d wanted to see him specifically? Letting that thought linger makes him wanders into the more dangerous territory of wondering if he’s been showing up specifically for him for a while. North _had_ said he seemed disappointed when he’d been absent, but that was North. He starts typing: _‘It’s okay, I probably wouldn’t have been in anyway, so…’_

 

…He promptly deletes that, because he’s nervous about presuming things. Retools the statement and hits send.

 

**Connor**

_(9:05PM)_

Sounds like you had a day you could’ve used some coffee.

I know the feeling.

 

It just feels more neutral, but not in a way that’s detached. Putting the phone aside, he forces himself up, knowing he’ll even have less energy later to get comfortable. By the time he hears the telltale buzz of his doorbell, he’s in glasses and his sweats and the delivery guy greets him by name because he’s ordered the same thing from this same place countless times before.

 

Him, stuck in his ways? Absolutely not.

 

Once he has two slices on a plate and a drink poured, he heads back to his couch. It’s really only at that point does he venture a look at his phone again, and is greeted with the sight of another message, one that probably came in when he was downstairs.

**Hank**

_(9:32PM)_

Shitty day?

 

Connor thinks he’s getting used to the short, blunt prompts Hank seems to throw at him. In a way, he’s grateful for it. There’s a lot of people he wouldn’t be entirely sure if they actually wanted a real answer to that, but Hank? Hank seems like the type that if he doesn’t want to hear it, he won’t bother asking.

 

It makes things a little easier to be comfortable in knowing how to respond.

 

**Connor**

_(9:39PM)_

Yeah, a little.

 

_(9:40PM)_

Just felt like everything wrong that could happen today did.

 

_(9:51PM)_

Did you have a shitty day?

 

He puts the phone aside and eats, attempting to convince himself he’s not going to sit around watching for a message. It takes getting through his first slice before his phone comes to life. He waits about five seconds before giving in and immediately checking it.

 

**Hank**

_(10:11PM)_

I’ve had worse

 

_(10:12PM)_

Think I’m letting a case get to me

 

_(10:13PM)_

Probably just tired

 

It feels a little ridiculous complaining about a bad day to a cop, he realizes. All the things Hank must see in a day is nothing compared to having to yell at a vendor or deal with an impatient but non-violent jerk. There’s a self-consciousness that comes with this realization, one that he can’t stamp down no matter how much he tries.

 

There’s a reluctance, a slowing of his typing speed, when he finally makes up his mind to clarify something.

 

**Connor**

_(10:17PM)_

I’m not bothering you, am I?

 

**Hank**

(10:19PM)

Nah

 

_(10:21PM)_

Shit if you were I’d just stop replying

 

_(10:23PM)_

This is most I’ve used this phone in a while

 

The reassurance is exactly what he needs. He takes a bite of his now cooled and mostly forgotten second slice of pizza – it’s edible, it’ll do – and considers how to respond. He knows he can say something along the lines of _good_ , but it feels like he’s thrown him something he can positively respond to.

 

He doesn’t usually use his phone, but he is now. Specifically for him. That’s what he reads between the lines. He’s even _confident_ , for once, he’s reading this right. That doesn’t make it any easier to respond in a more overt way.

 

It takes a bite, then another, then wipes his hands clean of the light sheen of grease and picks his phone up again.

**Connor**

_(10:26PM)_

Well, I’m glad you’re dealing with it. I like talking to you.

 

**Hank**

_(10:32PM)_

Yeah same here

 

It’s a message that comes to him after another long pause, one where he can see he’d been typing, pausing, typing, only to get another message that’s short and to the point. He’s not even sure what he’d edited out, but even this –

 

Even this feels like a big deal. One he’s not even sure if he should push. One he’s aware he’s nervous to push.

 

So he doesn’t. At all.

 

He did have one thing he had to ask before the night is done.

 

**Connor**

_(10:36PM)_

Oh, before I forget, about Friday?

 

**Hank**

_(10:39PM)_

You gotta cancel or something

Because I’d get it

 

Even with his fingers immediately flying over the touchscreen, he literally cannot not type fast enough in response to _that_.

 

**Connor**

_(10:40PM)_

What?

No, no, of course not.

 

_(10:41PM)_

Is there anywhere you particularly wanted to go?

I know it’s my treat but I don’t want to take you somewhere you won’t like.

 

**Hank**

_(10:44PM)_

Fuck kid I ate at the chicken feed today

 

_(10:45PM)_

If it’s got food it’s fine

 

This is not helpful, a fact he nearly types out before feeling like that’s a bit too scolding. He just needs – he doesn’t know. Direction? There’s a part of him that’s already imagining picking something random, something he likes, maybe, and it’s just – bad. A bad choice. He doesn’t take bad choices well to begin with, never mind when it’s about something like this.

 

He wants this to go well.

 

Even if nothing comes out of it, he wants this to go well.

**Connor**

_(10:47PM)_

Even if you’re not picky, you must like some things more than others?

 

**Hank**

_(10:50PM)_

Just nothing fancy

 

He’s honestly glad they’re not having a face-to-face conversation right now, because Connor can’t contain the laugh that bubbles out of him, despite the response _still_ not being helpful. There’s a lot of places he’s been sorting through his head, but anything that requires them dressing up is not one of them. He doesn’t know a lot about Hank yet, but what he’s gleamed in the two or so months of seeing him nearly daily and the last little while of talking to him is that he’s not someone that likes fuss.

 

Which isn’t a bad thing. It really isn’t.

 

**Connor**

_(10:52PM)_

Nothing fancy? All my plans are ruined now.

 

It’s only after he sends this message that he realizes he’s teasing someone who doesn’t know him well yet and that could go _poorly_. He starts to try to remedy this, but Hank’s already replying before he can do so.

 

**Hank**

_(10:54PM)_

Someone’s a smartass huh

 

Connor smiles stupidly at the screen without even realizing he’s doing it. Apparently he hadn’t needed to worry after all. Good.

 

**Connor**

_(10:55PM)_

I would hate it too, trust me.

 

Connor actually switches off their conversation to check if the place that suddenly comes to mind is still around. When he sees it is and is still well reviewed, he feels like he’s sure this is it. This is the place. Known for good burgers you build yourself, but there’s other stuff too, just in case.

 

It’s as perfect as he can figure out with what very little he has to go on.

 

_(11:03PM)_

Burgers?

 

Hank

_(11:05PM)_

Like a fast food place

 

He makes a face at the mere suggestion. He hopes Hank is joking, he likes to think he comes off as someone who’d pay out more. This would even be true if he isn’t considering this a date, even if he’s invited Hank under slightly false pretenses.

 

**Connor**

_(11:06PM)_

Better quality than that.

 

**Hank**

_(11:08PM)_

So fancy burgers

 

**Connor**

_(11:09PM)_

You know what I mean!

 

**Hank**

_(11:12PM)_

I do but it’s funny to fuck with you

 

It’s funny, he’s pretty sure being teased isn’t supposed to make him feel warm, but that’s the only word he can think of for the feeling it spurs in him. He’s distantly aware it shouldn’t have been this easy to fall into this kind of back and forth, but it is. He must be feeling that too, right?

 

He thinks so. He hopes so.

 

**Connor**

_(11:13PM)_

I’d threaten to just treat you to more of whatever the Chicken Feed is

But you’d probably be fine with that.

 

**Hank**

_(11:14PM)_

You learn quick

 

He snorts a little, finally forcing himself up from the couch. He’s given up on the last half of the second piece he’d been eating, tossing it out and putting away the rest into his fridge. Flipping the light off, he heads to bed before answering.

 

**Connor**

_(11:18PM)_

Do I want to know what the Chicken Feed is, by the way?

 

**Hank**

_(11:19PM)_

Probably not

 

**Connor**

_(11:19PM)_

Noted. You still didn’t answer my question.

 

**Hank**

_(11:20PM)_

About the fancy burgers?

 

**Connor**

_(11:20PM)_

Yes, about the fancy burgers.

 

**Hank**

_(11:22PM)_

Sounds fine to me

 

_(11:23PM)_

Text me the address

Eight?

 

It’s a strange feeling when he realizes things have really been set in stone. Like it hadn’t been real before, not exactly, until right then. There’s a mix of emotions that follow it, pooling in him and waiting for him to deal with them all. He won’t, of course, and he’ll probably be a mess until it’s all over, but -

 

But he wants this.

 

He’d wanted it when he asked before, but now? Now, after this conversation today, after the one last night? He’s more sure of it than ever.

 

**Connor**

_(11:24PM)_

Yeah, that’s fine.

Might be a little late, I’ll be taking an Uber.

 

**Hank**

_(11:25PM)_

You don’t drive?

 

**Connor**

_(11:25PM)_

I can but I haven’t needed a car in a while.

Work’s in walking distance

 

Hank

_(11:28PM)_

Send me your address too

 

_(11:29PM)_

I’ll pick you up

 

_(11:31PM)_

If you want

 

There is literally no reason to say no. He’s vaguely aware he’s hesitating anyway, and not even in the way he knows he should be hesitating about this (much as he has no reason not to trust him and Connor had initiated this all to begin with, he still doesn’t know him). Before he can psych himself out too much, he stops thinking and just replies.

 

**Connor**

_(11:35PM)_

If you don’t mind?

 

**Hank**

_(11:36PM)_

Not a big deal

 

**Connor**

_(11:36PM)_

Alright, I’ll text you the info.

Gonna try to sleep off this day now.

 

**Hank**

_(11:37PM)_

Good luck

 

It doesn’t take him long to compile the address of the place and then, after that, his own. Neatly types it all out and sends it along. He considers, for just a second, seeing if he can find a way to subtly attempt to define what this all is, because the idea of Hank not being on the same page as him has honestly went to something he can shrug off to something he knows is going to hurt if things go well.

 

He doesn’t, in the end, sending a simple goodbye and leaving it at that. Knows nothing good comes from overcomplicating things before it happens.

 

He still worries, though. He doubts that’ll stop until it’s over and done with.

 

* * *

 

They head to Markus’s place directly after work.

 

 It’s always so striking how different his friend’s apartment is to his own. While Connor’s shows his generally utilitarian mindset, it’s a little like walking into a painting every time he visits Markus’s. Moreso than usual, in fact, as the first thing he sees is the usual neat and tidy table that generally functions as a dining table is absolutely covered with colored paper, cardboard, and other various supplies, including glitter.

 

Connor knows this because Simon has some very noticeable splotches, including in his hair. It’s very hard to hide his smile. Markus doesn’t even bother as he approaches, pressing an affection kiss onto the top of his head.

 

“Having fun?” he asks, lifting an amused brow.

 

“Oh, absolutely,” Simon replies, motioning to the mess in front of him. “I hope you weren’t planning on using this tonight.”

 

“The coffee table will be fine,” he responds, patting his shoulder before disappearing into the hallway Connor knows leads to the bedroom and bathroom area, presumably to change out of his work clothes. Simon turns his attention to him now.

 

“Good to see you, Connor,” he greets, regarding him with a soft, somewhat playful smile. “You afraid of a little glitter?”

 

Connor looks between him and the table. “Am I being recruited?”

 

The expression he gets in response says _yes, yes he is_. And despite some trepidation (he’s already imagining the stuff finding all kinds of places to get stuck to him and refuse to wash off), he sits down anyway. With how hard he knows Simon works, helping him is a no brainer.

 

“Shapes?” Connor guesses, looking at what’s been done.

 

“It’s easier with props,” he explains, nodding in affirmation. “You want to cut or glue?”

 

“Whatever you want me to do,” Connor shrugs and is subsequently handed the glue bottle in response.

 

“I’ve already precut some of these. Just glue the construction paper to the cardboard,” he explains, though Connor’s pretty much already guessed his task. He takes a blue triangle and the cut cardboard piece near it. It’s an easy enough task, though he takes his time anyway.

 

He also waits for the questions he knows must be coming. Markus had been good about not bringing it up with North, but Simon is an entirely different story. When he doesn’t, it actually starts making him anxious.

 

“I know you want to ask,” Connor points out, finally just bringing it up himself.

 

“I do,” he replies, simply. He looks up from the square he’s cutting, adding, “But I can be patient.”

 

Markus, who had joined them at the table by then and had been currently scrolling through some app to order them all supper, just smirks. Connor recognizes the tactic as something he’d probably be using on one of his young students. It’s extremely effective, unfortunately.

 

“It’s not even a date, exactly,” he clarifies without any prompting whatsoever, because he can already tell how Markus probably worded this.

 

“It’s definitely a date,” Markus corrects, true to form, and Connor scowls.

 

“It did sound like one,” Simon mediates, looking between the two of them before his gaze settling back on Connor. “And you want it to be one, don’t you?”

 

Connor cannot argue with the observation even if he wants to. He knows it’s written all over his face. Still, Simon waits patiently for him to answer, and he finally admits, “Yes.”

 

Simon nods, finishing the shape he’s cutting out and putting it aside.

 

“You should make sure to clarify that tomorrow, then, as well,” he suggests lightly, as if that’s the simplest thing in the world to do.

 

(It technically is. This is the nice, adult way for Simon to tell him to _use his words_ , which is _again_ something he’s probably counseled his gaggle of preschool students to do. Children that probably listen _far_ better than he will.)

 

Connor doesn’t answer regardless, suddenly very interested in gluing this sparkly shape onto its cardboard, and both of his friends drop it. The conversation eventually settles into something easier and between the three of them and over some Thai food, they help Simon finish up his little project. Connor thinks he managed to even get out of it with minimal spots of glitter, though he’s sure he’s going to find a ton later, especially when he opts to help clean up.

 

Markus leads him into his bedroom not long after, throwing open his closet, which, as expected, is far more varied than his own. He sits on his bed once he motions for Connor to take what he needs. He’s not even entirely sure what he’s looking for, but he starts sifting through what’s available, figuring if it’s there, it’ll stand out to him.

 

Nothing is standing out to him.

 

“We’ve been texting, you know,” he admits, at least glad this lack of figuring out what to pick is allowing him to not be facing Markus right now.

 

“Going well?” he guesses, even though he’s sure he knows it obvious has been. He’s standing in his best friend’s room picking out clothes, of course it is. Connor hesitates before responding regardless.

 

“I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop,” he admits, because no, really, it’s going too well. It’s freaking him out.

 

“It might,” he allows. Never one to mince words, as per usual. “And if it does, you aren’t alone this time.”

 

Connor feels the tension just from him _tangentially_ bringing up what he knows is the real issue. He doesn’t answer, and after a minute or so, he hears Markus stand, coming to a stop beside him. He expects a hand on his shoulder, but instead, he reaches past him, pulling out a simple, neat sweater.

 

“This one would look good with that pair of black jeans I know you own,” he suggests, and Connor huffs out a laugh, knowing exactly what he means.

 

It’s a good pair. One that fits him _very_ well. Over his shoulder, he can see Simon’s joined them, lingering near the doorway. He nods in agreement when Connor looks at him and quirks a brow, as if asking, ‘what do you think?’

 

“You should wear it with your glasses,” Simon muses, after looking him over. “I’ve always thought you looked more handsome with them on. But I think it’s a good pick.”

 

Markus seems to consider Simon’s assessment. “Agreed.”

 

Connor looks between the two, clearing his throat. It’s very hard not to feel awkward, especially when this is the last thing he’d expected to be grabbing advice about from the two of them. “…I’ll keep that in mind.”

 

The fussing, as embarrassing as it is, is appreciated regardless.

 

* * *

 

He works until six.

 

Connor realizes this is strange enough that it might raise some eyebrows, since he generally works through the day when he comes in. And by some, he _specifically_ knows North will notice. She does. She also notices he seems on edge the entire day, which he tries and clearly fails to mask. She eventually asks, because it’s North, and he eventually placates her by promising he’d explain, just not now.

 

Because honestly? He’s still waiting for this to fall apart. He keeps glancing and waiting for that cancellation text, but it never comes. He considers texting him some brief message that he’s looking forward to tonight but thinks that’d be weird given what the current context of tonight is. Then he thinks again about defining everything via text and realizes it’d be even more awkward _now_ than it would’ve been two days ago. So he does nothing, a ball of nerves wrapped up in more nerves.

 

He pulls himself together eventually, having evidentially needed the extra time he gave himself to freak out. He uses the rest to make himself presentable, opting to wear his glasses. It ends up capping his outfit, honestly, he’ll give the two of them credit. What comes out of an hour of preparation is something approaching acceptable, even to him.

 

He’s not unaware he’s decent looking. It just feels nice to look at himself and feel it.

 

And taking that long gets him right to the wire, so there’s that small blessing. It means he conceivably doesn’t need to sit around too long second-guessing things. He still does, of course, especially when Hank’s ten minutes late and he’s suddenly staring at the possibility of being stood up, but then the doorbell buzzes and despite waiting for it, it still makes him jump a little. He counts out a few seconds in his head so he doesn’t look like he’d rushed over.

 

(Which, let’s face it, he did.)

 

Pressing his glasses up his nose, he exhales a slow, calming breath and then opens the door. He’s greeted by the sight of Hank leaning idly against the frame of the door. The first thing he notices is he’s got his grey hair pulled back into a half ponytail, something he’s _never_ see him do before. There’s a moment they just stand there, and Connor swears he gives him a once over before his gaze lifts to catch his, blue eyes even more striking with his hair entirely out of his face.

 

“Sorry, didn’t mean to be late,” Hank finally mumbles, rubbing the side of his neck. “Fucking traffic, you know?”

 

Right. He’s supposed to hold a conversation like a normal person now.

 

“I mean, you’re being nice enough to save me the cab fare, I wasn’t going to complain,” he replies, breezily, even making a _‘don’t worry about it’_ hand motion. “Thanks, by the way.”

 

“No sense making you take one when you don’t have to,” he shrugs, stepping aside to let him pass. Connor grabs his keys and follows him into the hallway, shutting and locking the door behind him. He turns and Hank is just lingering near him because the hallway is very small and boy, is it _a lot_ , one of the first of what he feels may end up being many moments of things being a lot. It’s certainly enough that he nearly steps back.

 

He doesn’t. Barely.

 

“Shall we?” he suggests instead, forcing a smile he hopes doesn’t look nervous. It probably does.

 

Hank’s car is –

 

It fits him. Somehow. Which Connor doesn’t say out loud, because Hank’s car also looks like it’s been on its last legs for a while and he’s pretty sure it’s not a model that’s even still in existence, so it feels like it might be an insult to say as much. It’s what he also sees – the personalization. There’s band decals and stickers with slogans (a few a bit cringey, admittedly), most faded with time, but some very obviously new. There’s a swaying dashboard hula girl. The seats sink in from overuse.

 

It’s a car that definitely has stories. He knows Hank seems like that kind of person, too.

 

“You mind music?” he asks once he’s settled in, seatbelt on, with the car started and idling. When he looks at Hank, his hand is on the dial, obviously waiting for permission. Connor hasn’t even _heard_ of any of the bands he’s designated worthy of decorating this car, so he feels like this is going to probably be an adventure in itself.

 

“Go ahead,” he replies, already having guesses to what he’s about to hear. There’s only so many kinds of genres that use the particular kind of naming conventions and skulls he’d spotted.

 

“Not gonna be that soft coffee crap,” Hank warns, a small grin on his face.

 

Teasing him. There’s something about it that helps him relax a little. It doesn’t need to be hard to talk to him, he knows this.

 

“I think I can take it,” he deadpans in response, lifting a brow.

 

Hank at least does him the kindness of twisting the volume down a noticeable amount, which immediately feels like a bad sign. When the music blasts out anyway, Connor silently wonders how he even still has his hearing if he plays the music at his usual volume. Hank turns it down further until it’s just loud enough to be heard, but they don’t need to yell over it as they drive toward their destination.

 

Mostly.

 

“Rocket 455?” he guesses. There’s a surprised quirk of Hank’s brow that he can see even though he’s watching the road.

 

“Heard of ‘em?” he asks, sounding dubious for entirely appropriate reasons. He is well aware he looks nothing like someone who’d listen to this music. No, this is more the kind of stuff he imagines North liking.

 

Connor considers lying anyway but decides against it almost immediately. He knows that’ll only end badly.

 

“I had a one in three shot,” he explains. Hank glances at him with a confused look, so he motions to his decals. “I was looking at these earlier. I guessed they had to be one of these, since you liked them enough to put them on your car. I picked the one I liked the most.”

 

Recognition crosses Hank’s face then and he nods, even looking a little impressed. As for the music? It’s…a lot of yelling. He earnestly attempts to listen but he’s pretty sure he’s grabbing only pieces of the lyrics. His attention is only pulled away when he hears a very audible huff of a laugh.

 

“I have never seen anyone look so fucking serious listening to metal. Christ,” Hank comments when he notices Connor’s looking at him. He blinks, immediately feeling a small welling of embarrassment. Perhaps noticing this, he adds, “Shit’s better if you just feel it.”

 

He turns it up again, the vibrations shaking the car even more than it had been before. Connor plays along and focuses on that instead and is surprised when he thinks he might feel it, the odd calming effect. Hell, he’ll take what he can get right now, all things considered.

 

It doesn’t take them long to get to the place. It’s about as busy as Connor remembers the last time he came here on a whim when they’d been in the area. It’s why he’d put in reservations, not wanting them to spend the entire night waiting to eat what amounts to, as Hank had put it, fancier versions of something they could just as easily pick up in any fast food joint, quality aside.

 

They even end up getting lucky and are given a quieter corner, handed menus, and left to their own devices. Connor watches him open up the menu, peering at it.

 

“You can get what you want,” he speaks up, just in case he was – he doesn’t know. Thinking about holding back? Hank looks at him over the menu, studying him again.

 

“One of everything, then?” he suggests, smirking.

 

Connor gives him a look. “I’m going to hope you wouldn’t be quite that cruel on my wallet.”

 

“I guess not,” he allows, going back to looking at what’s being offered. “Plus, there’s fucking sushi on this menu, you can keep that shit.”

 

A surprised kind of laugh bursts out of him at the utter disdain for a food type. “I feel like I’m going to be judged harshly if I pick sushi now?”

 

Hank doesn’t look up, but he can see the smirk on the other man’s face. “Good, ‘cause you will be.”

 

Apparently this conversation was what they’d needed. Or what Connor had needed anyway, as he feels himself relax completely at this point. The general ease to go back and forth with him is still there, even alone together, and that’s – that feels like a good thing.

 

They both end up wanting burgers, but not without some grumbling over the overcomplication of the creating a burger list. When it’s clear he’s a little at a loss of what to try, Connor leans forward a little in his seat.

 

“Should I go four for four?” he asks, looking confident.

 

“Build my shit for me, you mean?” he inquires. Connor nods. “I feel like I should suggest a bet, but I don’t actually want to lose money. Fuck it, sure, go for it.”

 

Connor knows what he wants already, so it’s easy to just focus on this new task. The waitress wanders over around then, looking for drink orders, and Hank sends her off with an order of whatever she considers her favorite beer. Connor makes a mental note to not drink too much this night, because he’s well aware it’d be asking for something unintended to happen.

 

“Okay, do you like spicy?” he asks, scanning the list of possibilities.

 

“On burgers? Nah,” he replies with a shake of his head.

 

Connor knows he can _probably_ go simple and it’ll work out. It feels too easy, though, and, again, he’s nothing if not someone who likes challenges. So he picks mostly obvious things, sure, but he does do small twists – a different sort of cheese, some bourbon glazed onions. It’s still simple, but not quite the level of simple that’d make it an average burger.

 

Hank looks dubious as he orders the burgers, making specific note to not mention which one will be his. Connor smiles pleasantly afterwards.

 

“Trust me.”

 

It belies a confidence he doesn’t quite have as much of in comparison to his suggestions with the food and drink he sells and makes in his own store, but he thinks he’s got a good read on him.

 

“We’ll see,” he says, sipping the beer that had been delivered when she had taken their food order.

 

He ends up liking it. It’s not even the kind of thing where he cops to likes it, which is a thing he’s not actually sure Hank would even do to begin with. He takes a bite and again, like before, his pleased surprise is not at all hard to read. Four for four, apparently.

 

“Better than the Chicken Feed?” Connor guesses, all cheek.

 

“Bad mouthing a shit hole before you even go there,” Hank tuts, pulling a mock-disappointed look. “But yeah, I guess, even though that’s a real fucking low bar to reach.”

 

He’s glad. He’s glad he likes this. If anything, he can call tonight at least half a success, one he doesn’t want to ruin with what he knows he’s going to eventually need to bring up. They eat and they talk and it’s comfortable in a way he still is surprised is the case.

 

He drinks all of his one beer by the end of it and it’s unfortunately not enough to get him loosened up, which he’d been counting on. A buzz he needs earlier than expected, in fact, because as he’s pulling out the wallet to pay for their food, Hank suddenly waves him off.

 

“Look, I appreciate it, but I’m not actually letting you pay for my shit, Connor,” he replies, quirking a brow up. “Especially for such a stupid reason.”

 

There it is. He’d been wondering when Hank was going to call bullshit.

 

“But –“ he begins, but Hank cuts him off.

 

“I don’t know if you just never get drunk or what, but it really wasn’t a big deal to do all this. Fucking funny, honestly,” he interrupts, and there’s this look that crosses his face. A look that Connor doesn’t like, even if he can’t put a finger on why. “So consider yourself off the hook. Don’t need to – I don’t fucking know - play nice anymore.”

 

Connor had been prepared to agonize over when to bring up what’s actually going on. Turns out, he hadn’t needed to at all, because he’s pretty sure he can’t say anything but the truth right now.

 

“Play nice?” he repeats, needing clarification first on _that_ , putting down the napkin that he’d been wiping his hands with.

 

Hank squints at him before sighing. “I’m sure you had better things to do tonight than be here.”

 

That’s exactly what Connor had thought he’d been getting at.

 

“That’s not –“ he begins, pauses, then frowns. “That’s not true at all, I wanted to be here. Look, I need to tell you something -“

 

He falters when the waitress wanders over, looking to grab the payment. Before Hank can do anything, Connor slides his card in and hands it to her. Hank doesn’t stop it, but he’s frowning as he does it.

 

“I’ll be back with that in a second,” she smiles, completely oblivious to the tension in front of her.

 

Connor waits for her to leave before his attention returns to Hank. “I am apparently worse at this than I thought. Can we – can we take a walk once she comes back? Before I head home. The waterfront’s right down the road, there’s places to sit.”

 

Places that are more private than a restaurant full of people. He’s not going to assume Hank is going to drive him back after all this anymore, so he tries to be neutral about that part of all of this. Outside is neutral.

 

“Alright, fine,” he agrees, though – perhaps stubbornly – he tosses what Connor is sure is meant to be the tip.

 

He doesn’t argue him paying for that, it doesn’t feel worth it.

 

The walk is silent afterwards. Connor tries to use it to formulate some way to explain exactly how he’s feeling, but they get to the riverfront – the area deserted, really, with how cold it is by the water and how late it’s gotten – and he’s still got nothing. There’s a bench in the vicinity that they both gravitate towards. Hank sits heavily on it. Connor remains standing, facing him, arms crossing against his chest.

 

“I lied to you,” he starts with and then immediately regrets because he can practically see Hank’s expression harden. “Not – not about something bad or me not enjoying myself. More like I’m just – wow, okay, I’m really bad at this.”

 

“Look, you dragged me out here, just say what you wanted to fucking say,” Hank demands, because, as it turns out, telling someone you lied is a nice, _fast_ way to piss someone off. Who knew? Connor sure did, but he had to say it anyway.

 

How bad this is going is enough to make him panic a little, because he doesn’t want this to go badly. He doesn’t.

 

So he defaults to the only thing he can think of: the truth. Just…the straight truth.

 

“What I’m trying to say is - I’m interested in you. And instead of just saying that, I came up with a stupid reason to hang out with you instead,” he states, bluntly. If Hank reacts, Connor does not see it, because he is looking away at this point. “I thought I could get a better read on if you felt the same this way if we talked longer than a couple of minutes. Make this conversation less awkward. Boy, that was a bad call.”

 

The last part is sort of a joke? Hank doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t say anything at all, which is why Connor finally looks over. He’s just staring now, his expression unreadable.

 

“I don’t regret spending time with you tonight. I don’t regret talking with you more this week, even. It’s – I’ve enjoyed it. I meant it when I said that,” he continues, making damn sure to at least say that. It does nothing to ease the tension, but it feels right for him to spell out he’d enjoyed himself. “I just thought there was –“

 

He falters. There’s a tightness in his chest that’s hard to ignore.

 

“Something. Maybe. Between us,” he finishes.

 

The lack of any kind of answer still is a new, special kind of torture, Connor thinks. After what feels like endless silence, Hank gets up so he’s standing in front him, eye to eye. He must see something there, because he finally reacts.

 

“Christ,” Hank exhales, looking bewildered. “You’re – you're not fucking around, are you?”

 

Connor squares his shoulders. Tilts his head up. Attempts, probably pathetically, to try to look more steady in his convictions about this. He doesn’t feel it, but he knows he doesn’t want to come off unsure. It feels like if he’s going to choose to try to be assertive, this is his moment.

 

“No, I'm not,” he responds, his voice remarkably even for how absolutely tilted he feels inside. “And I think you’re interested too. Am I wrong?”

 

It’s…a gambit, for sure. Connor knows at this point Hank can simply deny it and walk away, leaving him standing there and feeling like an idiot. Really, the issue at this point is he wholly believes what he’s saying. There’d been a connection, hadn’t there? He hadn’t been manufacturing being flirted with, had he? He almost desperately needs to just hear him at least _confirm_ it even if this goes nowhere. At least then he won’t be as bad as he feels like he is at this, that he’s been out of doing this so long he can’t even read people appropriately anymore.

 

“Of course you’re not. Shit, kid, look at you, you’re fucking -” he trails off and just _gestures_ , looking flustered. He actually looks flustered. “I knew I felt some vibes, but I never thought –“

 

He just stops again, shaking his head. Connor can see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows heavily. The look from earlier hasn’t gone away, the one he didn’t like, but he recognizes it now.

 

“Fuck, you don’t want this,” Hank finishes, sounding tired.

 

And his look? It’s not sadness, not exactly. It’s not distrust either, but it’s something close. Connor knows because he _has_ felt and honestly _still_ feels the same way about putting himself out there. He doesn’t know Hank’s story, but there’s some bizarre comfort in knowing they’re of a similar wavelength here, too. What ends up being key to his decision of what to do next is what Hank had said – not that _he_ didn’t want this, but that _Connor_ didn’t.

 

Steeling himself, he shows him he’s wrong by grabbing his coat, pulling him down closer, and pressing his mouth to his. It’s as reserved as a kiss can be at first, considering the immediate tension in response to it that Hank’s posture has, stiffening against him. If he’s honest, he’s waiting to be pushed off, and his grip is certainly light enough for Hank to do so if he chooses. Instead, slowly, he feels him start to relax. His large hands settle around his body, one splaying out against his lower back.

 

All of it just signals _permission_. His grip loosens on his coat and one hand comes to rest against the back of his neck again, just under where his hair is still up. He tugs him down even further this way, deepening the kiss, vaguely wishing his hair were down so he could card his hand through it. His free hand runs against his beard instead, savoring the feeling of the coarseness against his skin.

 

Hank’s still not pulling away.

 

On the contrary, Connor senses him tightening his grip, pressing his fingers roughly into his back, essentially pulling him closer until there’s no room left between them. He nearly makes an embarrassing noise at the sensation his fingers are causing, because it feels very, very, good, and it’s been a long time. Too long, apparently, because suddenly he’s wishing he hadn’t worn pants that were quite so tight.

 

It’s literally only _propriety_ that eventually forces him to reluctantly break away, though he doesn’t step back, his hand simply slipping from behind his neck to rest on his broad shoulder instead. He adjusts his glasses with the other, as it’d been knocked a little off kilter at some point, looking a little sheepish as he does. He’s flushed and so is Hank, the older man’s cheeks ruddy and blue eyes wide and sharply on him.

 

“So,” Connor manages breathlessly, not even attempting to hide the effect that just had on him. “I wanted to respectfully disagree about not wanting this.”

 

Hank just stares. He just _stares_ and then suddenly he _laughs_ , surprised and disbelieving. It’s warm, too, though, his expression softened in a way Connor has never seen before. Like he’s seeing him without whatever it is that made him say he didn’t want this in the first place.

 

He wants to keep giving him a reason to look like this. He hopes he can.

 

“Holy shit,” he finally manages to wheeze out, sounding out of breath himself. “Fuck,  Connor –“

 

He sees the hesitation coming back. This time, Connor’s the one that interrupts. “Look, I just want to spend more time with you. Whatever comes from that comes from that. Is that fair?”

 

The look of apprehension seems to bleed away a little. It’s not exactly an offer of no strings attached, but it’s also an olive branch to show he’s being realistic. He’d already said there was mutual interest. This all feels like a good place to start. A chance to actually get to know each other.

 

“You’re persistent as hell, you know that?” he asks, though the fondness in his tone makes Connor feel warm. He’s gotten through to him, he thinks, which is confirmed when he adds, “Alright, that - I can do that.”

 

Hank gives him a small, nearly imperceptible squeeze before putting a little distance between them. As much as Connor knows he very much needs the space himself to cool off, he still feels the loss of touch acutely. He takes a deep, steadying breath.

 

“You ready to get going?” Hank continues, looking him over.

 

The answer is yes, but he doesn’t want it to be. As much as he thinks this has all turned around, a not insignificant part of him wonders if he’s just humoring him. If this is the last time he’s going to see him. All things he doesn’t bring up, doesn’t ask, doesn’t want to know. With a sigh, he simply nods. “It’s getting late.”

 

The silence between them in the car after is surprisingly not uncomfortable. Every time Connor sneaks a look, Hank looks contemplative but not in a tense way. He leaves him be, knowing this is going to be a longer discussion if it all really does continue, but one that doesn’t need to happen now. They pull up to his apartment building and he stares up at it for a long moment before looking over at Hank.

 

“Thanks for the ride,” he says, not sure what else he can say. _‘Have a good night, making out with you was fun’_ just doesn’t seem like the right path to take right now. He just offers him a small, admittedly shy smile instead. “Goodnight.”

 

Hank doesn’t respond, just quietly observing him again, which is okay, he thinks. It’ll be okay, whatever happens, a mantra he’s sure he’s going to be using a whole lot after tonight. After giving him an appropriate amount of time to say something, he takes it as a hint and starts getting out of the car. He’s halfway to opening the flimsy door and Hank suddenly says, “Hey, Connor.”

 

It makes him look over, of course it does, and suddenly he feels his sweater bunch up as he’s grabbed. That’s about all the warning he gets before Hank kisses him again, knocking the air out of him,. There’s no build up at all, rough and needy from the get-go, and Connor distantly realizes he'd been so quiet a few moments before because he'd been deciding if he wanted to do _this_. That noise he'd managed to repress earlier won’t be denied this time, spilling out of him against his mouth, but he has no chance to be self-conscious about it.

 

As it turns out? Hank’s done the unthinkable and literally shut the portion of his brain off that would’ve normally be mortified, apparently. It’d be a lie if he didn’t consider inviting him up at this point, throwing all caution to the wind in a way he has _never_  done before. Unfortunately, what _hasn’t_ shut up is the realization there’s some lingering anxiety there, too, anxiety he’s not ready for him to see. Anxiety he knows might make things awkward, and god, he doesn’t want that, because things are suddenly actually looking like they're going good.

 

It doesn’t stop him from enjoying this right now, cramped as they are in this tiny car. When they finally break away, he doesn’t need a mirror to know he must look like a mess, his lips feeling bruised in the best way possible. Any progress he’d made earlier calming down is wiped away. It’s even worse in the position he’s currently in, awkwardly angled in the uncomfortable seat still. They share a look and Hank releases his grip.

 

“Thanks for dinner,” he murmurs, voice rough in a way that shoots right the hell through Connor. Even the dark, he sees the small, pleased smile that he’s starting to think Hank reserves only for him. “Goodnight.”

 

Connor half stumbles out of the car after mumbling what he’s pretty sure was an appropriate response to that, stopping only long enough to watch the car roll away. He feels dizzy and a little lightheaded as he heads up the stairs and toward his apartment, immediately thankful to find none of his neighbors are out of their apartments and lingering in the hallway, because he is in no position to explain his current state. As he ducks inside his own place and leans heavily against the door he closes behind him, he finds himself vaguely wondering if his shower can even match how cold he _needs_ it to be right now.

 

He truly and sincerely doubts it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title yoinked from ["Stars" by The xx](http://nullrefer.com/?https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EmVI8f0Fey8%22).
> 
> (also, fun fact, Rocket 455 is the actual band name of the music Hank was listening to in the car in DBH. Felt appropriate to use them instead, hah.)


	5. Like Real People Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tentative steps forward and a hard stumble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!!! Well, this week was a Thing, wasn't it and uh, this chapter is a thing too. 
> 
> Thank you, as always, for all the kind comments that are an honest freaking joy to get. I seriously read all of them and end up being delighted every time I spot one pop into my inbox. And as always, thank you for all the kudos, bookmarks, pokes on twitter, etc. as well. :D
> 
> Speaking of twitter, find me over in twitter jericho [@dathankconlife](https://twitter.com/dathankconlife).

Connor doesn’t remember falling asleep.

 

In fact, he wakes up feeling a little like he’d gotten way drunker than he actually had the night before, bewildered and out of it. Hell, it’s enough he’s sure he’d doubt his memory of what happened at all if he didn’t feel the dull ache of what he’d realized last night was slight bruising from where Hank’s fingers had been pressing into him still. That’s a thing that happened. That’s a thing that’s still there.

 

Connor purposely does not think deeply about that realization as he gets up, groggily. He also does not think about last night at all to the best of his ability, because he needs to get to work and he’d like not to have the kind of situation he had before he went to bed the night present itself again right now. He’d gotten up late enough that he needs to rush through things, which at least means he doesn’t really have a lot of time to linger.

 

Markus doesn’t ask outright when he gets in how it went. But he does give him a questioning look and Connor smiles back and he seems to take it for the sign of _‘it certainly could’ve been worse’_ that he’d meant the look to convey. And it’s true, that’s exactly how it’d all ended, a big question mark still there but one that’s slightly smaller than it had been hopefully. That’s enough right now, he’s good with that.

 

He doesn’t expect to see Hank that morning at all, all things considered. That lack of assumption leads him to not prepare for such an encounter, his mind entirely on the potential new hire he knows is coming in soon. Hiring people is a job that usually defaults to Markus, who is infinitely better at having an eye for people. He’s not in right now, though, and he doubts he’ll be back in time with the vendor he’s gone to speak with, so it falls to him. Going through what he needs to do for the task is what he’s busy with – along with putting together an order with a customer – when he hears the telltale jingle of their business’s door. He glances over, wondering if it’s the girl he knows he needs to keep an eye out for – Markus had told her to come in any time in the morning – and instead finds Hank striding in.

 

To his credit, he manages to not full on drop the drink he’s putting together, which feels like a little victory in itself. What’s a bit more tenuous about the entire situation is he’s decided to show up when this particular customer has his ear. There’re certain regulars – Hank included, funny enough – that have earned a _reputation_. This woman, who Connor knows is two years younger than him because she has very openly told him, and works at a Very Important Company, because she’s insisted he know this as well, consistently spends her entire visit flirting with him. Today is no different, to the shock of no one - as he works, she’s leaning on the counter a bit, smiling prettily at him.

 

This is awkward for Connor at the _best_ of times and he usually opts to smile and bear it because he’s terrible at knowing exactly what to do when he’s put in this position. Today, apparently, he gets to live through a new special hell as Hank purposely scoots up a few steps behind her in line. He looms just by virtue of how gigantic he is in comparison, making no secret that he’s listening in. Connor feels heat on his neck as the customer continues to chat with him in an overfamiliar way.

 

“You should come out for drinks with me sometime this week,” she offers as she hands him her card. “I think you’d have fun.”

 

He takes it, miserably wondering what he’s done to deserve this.

 

“Ah, I’m sorry, I really just have no time to socialize lately,” he lies through his teeth, and, to his continued mortification, he hears an audible snort of amusement from behind her. She seems to think nothing of the noise, which is honestly the only saving grace of this entire situation. Connor briefly fixes the older man a _look_ over her shoulder before returning his attention to fumbling through dealing with this. He even manages a convincing smile. “Thank you, though, it’s nice of you to offer.”

 

She looks disappointed, but clearly undeterred. Meanwhile, Connor has never put a transaction through so quickly. He holds out the card, not quite looking her in the eye and _definitely_ not looking at Hank behind her.  

 

She takes the drink and smiles back at him, oblivious to his discomfort. “That’s too bad. Maybe next time?”

 

Connor makes a noncommittal noise and, apparently satisfied by that, she turns and heads out the door. Hank waits until she’s gone before stepping on to the register. Connor thinks his ears are probably pink at this point.

 

“Didn’t realize you were such a fucking busy guy,” he comments idly – innocently – openly amused by the entire situation he just got to watch unfold. Connor supposes this reaction is better than most other scenarios that involve Hank overhearing someone very openly flirting with him, but still.

 

“I make room when it’s something I really want,” he settles on in response, looking him right in the eye, and there, that trips Hank up just a little bit, his smirk faltering. He smiles then, suddenly finding it very easy to be all business. “What can I get for you today, Hank?”

 

It doesn’t take him long to recover. He just sighs and holds up his hand, indicating the number two. “Two of those Americano things. Coffee machine’s busted at work and my snotty partner is bad enough without caffeine.”

 

Easy enough. Connor gets to work without any real difficulty. He considers asking about his partner. Considers asking a lot of things, honestly, because last night’s events make him feel like it’s appropriate and not nosy. He doesn’t, though, not yet, not here when he's working and this transaction is almost over.

 

He places the two drinks in front of him once they’re done. His gaze lingers a little _too_ long on his face, letting his brain helpfully supply thoughts of the night before. He quickly averts his eyes as he takes his money. Clearing his throat, he requests, “You’ll have to tell me how your partner likes it.”

 

It’s mostly there as an invitation back, but yeah, he’ll be curious.

 

“If it shuts him up, I’ll call it a win,” he deadpans. Connor feels like he’s getting an idea of this person already.

 

“Fair enough. There’s your change,” he says, holding the money out. Hank waves it off as usual, and Connor just smiles, tossing it into the tip jar. There’s a brief pause then before he adds, in a quieter voice, “I’ll text you later?”

 

It’s a sentence that comes out like a question. It’s another thing he’d been agonizing over in the back of his head, when is too soon to contact him? Would he look clingy messaging him so quickly? The lack of boundaries has him a little off kilter and he hopes Hank _at least_ understands that. He doesn’t even pause to consider his answer, like it should be obvious when literally nothing about him is obvious.

 

“Looking forward to it,” he replies, sliding the drinks to him and picking them up. The small smile is there briefly on his face. “Have a good morning, kid.”

 

He’d been out in front alone when that conversation had started. He’s not sure when that changed, but when he sees North standing there looking at him with an expression that he recognizes as suspicion melting into realization, he realizes she’s been there long enough to connect dots. Well, he supposes, this at least means he doesn’t need to find a way to broach the topic.

 

She has no time to ask, as if it were an appropriate time to chat about that right now anyway, because the next person that wanders in fits the exact description of the potential new hire Markus had mentioned would be swinging by. There’s a slight hesitation in her step at first as she approaches.

 

“Hi,” she greets softly, looking up at him with a shy smile. “I’m here for an interview. Is Markus in?”

 

Connor smiles himself, hoping it might make the new applicant a little less nervous. It doesn’t seem to do much to help, unfortunately. “Markus had to duck out, so I’ll be taking over. Come on, let’s go into the back where we can sit – just come around the counter. North, you good on your own in front?”

 

North’s face is just lit up with this knowing, shit-eating grin still. She fake salutes at the question, clearly tucking away this new information she’s realized for later. “You can count on me, boss.”

 

…and then she winks at the woman as she ducks behind the counter, adding, “No need to be nervous, I promise he’s as nice as Markus is, just dorkier.”

 

Connor rolls his eyes, though he’s quietly glad to hear the comment get a quiet laugh out of her, even though she quickly tries to mask it.

 

“Yes, well, give a yell if you need anything,” he says after a long-suffering sigh, though not exactly denying the description. He motions for the new woman to follow. “The office is this way.”

 

He holds the door open for her to go in first, then follows her in, then shuts it behind them. He sits behind the desk as she takes a seat across from him. She still looks a little nervous, which he really does hate to see.

 

“I wasn’t going to give North the satisfaction of agreeing with her in front of her, but she’s absolutely right about me. Not as dorky as she’d tell you, but, you know,” he offers, quirking up a grin. “My name’s Connor, I co-own this place. Kara, correct? Markus has told me quite a bit about you.”

 

The casual air of how he’s talking seems to do the trick. He can see her posture relax somewhat as she nods her head. Holding out a single piece of paper, she replies, “I’ve been his neighbor for a few months, he and Simon have been very kind and welcoming. Here, I brought my resume?”

 

Connor takes it, though it’s mostly out of courtesy. He’s been made aware to disregard the lack of previous experience in this type of business. It’s nice to see things like child and elderly care on the resume anyway – it spoke of a good amount of empathy, which is always helpful in the way they run this place. After giving it a full glance, he puts it down in front of him. “So, Markus already mentioned a little bit about you to me, but why exactly are you looking to work here?”

 

She hesitates before asking, “Can I be honest?”

 

Connor is surprised at the question, though he imagines some companies wouldn’t appreciate people being too honest if their backgrounds are intense. “Of course.”

 

She doesn’t seem entirely sure if she can believe him, but she nods, folding her hands in her lap. “I had some issues with the adoption of my daughter and her biological father. I only recently resolved them and we moved here to start over. When I mentioned to Markus I was looking for a stable job, he suggested I apply here, especially since Alice’s school is so close. While I don’t have any background as a barista, I learn quickly and as you can see, I do have some background in what can amount to customer service.”

 

Connor listens quietly, fingers steepling as he does. Markus had mentioned she had hit hard times and could use the work, but none of the details. It made even more sense now, why he’d suggested it. Everyone that worked here had some sort of story, some worse than others.

 

Him included, of course.

 

“Do you think you’ll enjoy the work?” he asks, sitting back in his seat.

 

To her credit, she pauses, honestly considering the question. “I do like coffee. And people, for that matter. And you seem as nice as Markus.”

 

“But dorkier,” he supplies with a wink.

 

She smiles.

 

Connor didn’t really need much more beyond that. Markus had already more or less signed off on her to begin with, and all he needs to hear is she’s willing to do her best. That’s exactly what her answer conveys. He folds his arms against his chest.

 

“When can you start?” he asks, tilting his head. Her smile widens.

 

“Really?” she asks, expression bright. “Oh – tomorrow, if need be. I have someone who will watch Alice.”

 

Connor pauses, swiveling in his chair to his computer to see who’s on schedule. “Okay, you should be fine for tomorrow. Josh will be fine with you shadowing him, he’s trained before. Do you have any questions for me? I know Markus mentioned you know the starting pay and hours, but –“

 

Kara shakes her head. “Not right now. And if I do, I’ll be sure to ask.”

 

Connor nods, standing and offering out his hand. She stands herself and shakes it. “Glad to have you aboard. We’re a bit of a strange bunch, but I think you’ll find this a nice place to work.”

 

It isn’t just business speak, not at all. He thinks she can tell that, but if she can’t, she’ll surely see. He sees her out after a bit of paperwork. North never gets a chance that day to corner him, and Connor ends up being the sole person to close up shop that night when she leaves early for a show and Markus has a thing with Simon at the school. He’s admittedly glad, because he knows both have questions and he’s content to not deal with a litany of questions, many of which he doesn’t even have answers to, not yet.

 

He gets home late because of it all, though, and for a while he wonders if he should actually text Hank like he’d said he would. After a bit of internal debate, he reminds himself that he’s probably got weird hours, and, it’s like he’d said to him before –

 

If he isn’t interested in talking, he won’t reply.

 

**Connor**

_(11:45PM)_

Did the coffee go over well with your partner?

 

He continues his usual nightly routine. He’s off work tomorrow, so when he realizes he’s not even close to being tired, he just settles in to watch TV instead of fitfully tossing and turning. He manages to cocoon himself comfortably on his couch too. He’s got some random movie on Netflix running that he’s barely paying attention to but is providing the kind of white noise he needs to get comfortable.

 

He’s starting to doze off when he feels the buzz of his phone next to his stomach. It’s not something he entirely is cognizant enough to immediately think to check until it happens a couple more times, stirring him out of his half-asleep daze with a jolt.

 

**Hank**

_(12:45AM)_

Not even your stuff can make him less of a shithead

 

_(12:46AM)_

But he stopped bitching for a while

 

_(12:49AM)_

You texted me pretty late for you

 

_(12:52AM)_

Take that lady up on her offer?

 

Connor is struck at how…tempted he is to reply to this asking if he’s asking because he’d be jealous if he actually had. The idea that he might be does things to him he’s not entirely ready to admit to. He doesn’t, of course. Things still feel a little like a dance right now, one that he doesn’t entirely know the steps for. Every action feels like a chance to irrevocably ruin it by accidentally stepping on toes.

 

This does not mean he entirely plays things safe, even if he wholly expects Hank not to respond to it.

 

**Connor**

_(12:55AM)_

She’s not my type.

 

 

**Hank**

_(12:59AM)_

Fend off people like that often

 

Turns out Connor is right, in a way. What he doesn’t expect is for him to keep asking questions. He can almost see him trying to casually do it too, which makes him think, hey, maybe he is a little jealous. Or at least attempting to gauge how many people he’s waved off before they met.

 

It’s a nice feeling. He decides not to tease him about it, opting to be honest.

 

**Connor**

_(1:00AM)_

Honestly, not usually?

 

**Hank**

_(1:02AM)_

Find that doubtful

 

Warmth blooms in him as he reads and then rereads the reply. Despite Hank’s bluntness, Connor’s been struggling at points to unpack what feels like tiny minefields at points in his short, to the point replies. This one doesn’t feel that way, not at all. It’s not the first time he’d referenced being attracted to him, but -

 

He’s not going to complain if he keeps doing that.

 

**Connor**

_(1:04AM)_

That sounds suspiciously like a compliment.

 

**Hank**

_(1:05AM)_

Maybe

 

He certainly doesn’t mind when he admits it, too. Still, he expressed doubt, and it feels like he needs to make it clear he isn’t kidding. What he’d said honestly hadn’t been him being humble. The people around him have always tended to get more attention than him, which he’s never had an issue with. He hadn’t had an issue with it even when Markus and he were kids.

 

He had just gotten lucky Hank was the exception here.

 

**Connor**

_(1:06AM)_

Truthfully, Markus usually is the one who gets the attention most of the time.

And when it’s me, I end up not really knowing what to do.

 

**Hank**

_(1:08AM)_

Noticed

 

A surprised, short laugh escapes him. The general reaction of being embarrassed is put aside to a brief moment of indignation. He replies before he even thinks about what he’s saying.

 

**Connor**

_(1:10AM)_

Hey, it seemed to work on you!

 

**Hank**

_(1:16AM)_

Yeah I guess it did didn’t it

 

..And is rewarded by an agreement he’s not expecting to see. It’s not like this is actual news to him – he hadn’t said as much, but you don’t kiss someone the way Hank had kissed him the night before without feeling _something_. It’s still something to see him admitting to his horrible attempt at flirting had somehow worked on him.

 

He’s not sure how to respond to it. Should he preen in text, a little like he’s preening right now, because that’s definite a thing happening? Should he tease him? Should he just leave it be? His indecision leads to silence he doesn’t intend, and before he settles on something, Hank is typing again.

 

_(1:21AM)_

Christ partner’s bitching again

 

_(1:21AM)_

Gonna go

 

Connor hadn’t even considered he was on assignment right now. Or is he just saying that because Connor had blanked on him? It makes him uneasy, but with how often he seems to default to self-deprecation and the lack of that anywhere, he decides it’s probably true.

 

The first time they’d talked, he’d pulled an all-nighter. The idea of him working night hours is just part of his job.

 

**Connor**

_(1:22AM)_

Didn’t realize you were working, sorry.

 

_(1:23AM)_

Be careful, okay?

 

**Hank**

_(1:24AM)_

Don’t worry

I’ll be fine

 

It’s funny, but it really isn’t until then that Connor realizes _: oh, I’ve decided to like someone who has a job with a high likelihood of injury, haven’t I?_ It’s something that makes a pang of anxiety curl in him, as ridiculous as that probably is. Hank is probably very good at his job, probably survived more things than Connor can even imagine. This is unfortunately _also_ not a comforting thought, because it leads him to wonder if he’s gotten shot.

 

(It’s inevitable that he finds himself wondering, briefly, if he’ll see usually hidden scars one day. He very quickly stops lingering on that thought for many reasons.)

 

He sighs, untangling himself from the light blanket he’d had on him while watching TV, and decides he needs to head to bed before his overactive brain decides to take hold.

 

* * *

 

**North**

_(9:15AM)_

What r u doin today?

 

Connor is not _terribly_ surprised when he finds something from North the morning after. In fact, he’s more surprised there aren’t more of them, though he’s too half-asleep to consider why that might be. He replies honestly because nothing is pinging him to do otherwise, not thinking about the mistake he’s making.

 

**Connor**

_(10:23AM)_

Not much. Maybe some errands eventually, why?

 

He abandons his phone then for the moment. Goes through the motions of his morning. At some point, he hears the phone chime again, but he ignores it. This is his second mistake, as it turns out. He checks it a little over twenty minutes after hearing it and just sort of gapes at his phone.

 

**North**

_(10:50AM)_

I’m comin over

 

He starts tapping out something along the lines of _wait, what?!_ when his door buzzes. He looks at the phone, then the door. It buzzes again. He sighs and heads over, opening it. To the surprise of no one, North is standing there when he opens it. She looks him over, clearly amused he still looks like he rolled out of bed.

 

“Nice hair,” she comments, then looks to her right at someone Connor can’t see. “Hey, old lady, what’d I tell you? He knows me. Stop looking at me like I’m trying to break in.”

 

Connor blinks, shuffling closer to poke his head out to see who she’s talking to.  His elderly neighbor is standing by her door, draped in her usual morning robe. She’s eying North, who is looking like she’s ready to go on stage for another one of her shows any moment, with some level of suspicion.

 

“Oh, is this your girlfriend, Connor?” she asks. True to form, North lets out a sharp laugh at the mere _suggestion_ , a grin lifting on her features.

 

“Nah, he goes for –“

 

Before she can continue that sentence, he seizes her arm and drags her into his apartment, much to his neighbor’s surprise. He at least thinks to poke his head out once she’s inside, adding, “Everything’s fine! She’s just a co-worker and friend, that’s all. Have a nice morning!”

 

And then slams the door shut. When he looks at North again, her smile has not wavered even a fraction.

 

“I guess she hasn’t met Hank yet,” she comments idly, knowingly. Connor sighs, pushing his glasses up his nose so he can rub at his eyes. His silence is apparently an answer. “…But she could have at some point, couldn’t she?”

 

Connor heads into his kitchen. He is starving and hasn’t even had his first coffee yet, he’s not ready for this conversation at all. Instead of answering, he asks, “Breakfast?”

 

Because he’s nothing if not polite, even when his guest has decided it’s entirely fine to barge in like this.

 

“Yeah, sure, if you’re offering,” she replies, and when he glances over his shoulder at her, she’s leaning forward, resting her cheek in her hand. “Didn’t answer my question, by the way.”

 

This would have been infinitely easier in text. He replies to her while his back is turned and he’s making scrambled eggs instead.

 

“He picked me up two days ago. We had dinner,” he explains, in a tone he’d be using if he were reading off a supply list or something equally mundane. “That’s all there is to tell.”

 

He hears her scoff behind him.

 

“Bullshit,” she responds, not buying it for a moment. He really hadn’t expected anything less. “I saw it yesterday. You two practically were fucking each other with your eyes.”

 

He is glad he is not cooking and is facing away because he does not want her to see the reaction he’s sure is visible and there. “It’s complicated, alright?”

 

He slides half of the eggs onto one plate, then puts the other half on a plate for himself. After putting the plate and a fork in front of her, he heads over to sit beside her. She’s quiet, looking thoughtful at that. He knows questions are going to come, so he just starts eating, waiting to start fielding them.

 

“But something definitely happened. Something that you liked, because –“ she pauses, clearly putting consideration into what she wants to say. After a few forkfuls of food herself, she finally seems to settle on what feels right. When she speaks, her tone is gentler. “You looked happy. Which is pretty fucking good to see on you, turns out.”

 

It’s not what he’s expecting her to say and for a moment, he sits there, not sure how to answer. Any time he forgets people care about him, they seem like they find ways to remind him in a way that’s almost a sucker punch to the gut. Poking at his food nervously, he eventually sighs. “I am. It scares the hell out of me.”

 

There it is. It’s a relief to get that anxiety out there instead of having it sitting at the bottom of his gut. It makes him think of yesterday, of his inability to decide how to respond to things. It’s directly related to how worried he is about screwing up, which apparently is only getting worse now.

 

“God, Con, it’s like I said before, you’re so fucking in your head all the time.” she stated, pointing her fork toward his head to emphasize her point. “Dinner went well, right?”

 

Connor nods.

 

“Then what’s the problem? You should be diving head first, I know it was driving you nuts,” she points out in a way that’s not even accusatory. There’s a genuine attempt at understanding, because it’s at this point she must know she’s missing some piece. He doesn’t answer – hates talking about it, honestly – but there’s tension he can feel rising in him that she must be able to see, because a hand closes on his arm. It’s light, comforting, and it makes Connor look at her. “Fuck me, I’m being too nosy, aren’t I?”

 

“No, it’s –“ Connor begins, then falters. He hates to admit it, but he really does appreciate this, even if it makes him uncomfortable, because he realizes he probably should talk to someone. Eventually, he lets out a long exhale. “It’s just been a while because the last time really…wasn’t great. So now I keep trying not to really mess up and in the process, I think I’m still screwing up? I’ve been cycling between good with this and wondering why I’m bothering.”

 

Everyone that works at their shop has a story. He knows, generally, North’s is a little like his. Even dancing around the subject, he sees her squint a little at him, perhaps recognizing – or at least guessing – what he’s indicating when he talks about his past. She purses her lips, looking thoughtful.

 

“Okay, so. No consequences, what would you do right now?” she inquires. Connor looks skeptical. “Anything.”

 

This is not a question he’s exactly ready for. He sighs, looking awkward. “I guess I’d see if we could meet up today, but it’s only been -“

 

North makes a silencing sort of noise. Connor closes his mouth.

 

“Text him. The worst he’ll say is no,” she encourages. He gives her a dubious look.

 

“He sounds like he was pulling an all-nighter when I was talking with him yesterday,” Connor counters. He’s probably asleep, if that even happened at all. That doesn’t sound like someone who’s going to want to go out somewhere.

 

“So he’ll tell you that whenever he wakes up,” she shrugs, pausing to finish off her plate. Connor’s barely eaten any of his, despite his hunger. “And then there’s your opening to plan for when it can be a thing. I promise it’s not as big a deal as you think it is.”

 

He dislikes when he can’t argue something he wants to argue. After a long, silent moment, he reaches over with his free arm and grabs his phone.

 

“This is pointless,” he complains, even as he starts typing out a text. He can see North smirk at his grumbling, saying nothing,

 

**Connor**

_(12:01PM)_

So I know you sounded like you were out late last night working?

 

_(12:04PM)_

But I’m off today so if you want to grab a quick bite or something, I’m around.

 

“Be more assertive,” North advises, after Connor lets her read what he wrote.

 

“Like how?” he asks, frowning. North lifts her brow, as if asking _‘is it okay?’_ when she motions taking the phone. His lips form a line, nervous, but he hands it over, trusting she’s not about to have him ask for something embarrassing. She takes it and it takes mere moments for her to type something.

 

“There,” she says, satisfied, handing it over to Connor. He flushes a little, but he wholly knows it’s an acceptable thing to say, if more forward than he’s used to. With a sigh, he sends it as is.

 

_(12:11PM)_

We should figure something out soon if today isn’t good. Just want to see you.

 

North winks at him. “You’ll thank me later.”

 

He isn’t exactly _doubtful_ , but he’s not getting his hopes up, either.

 

It takes a while. Longer than North’s visit, and she hangs out for the better part of the afternoon just hanging out in his apartment. They throw on a movie when it’s clear she’s sticking around. She mentions needing to decompress after the show the night before and apparently his place is just the right amount of quiet she needs. He doesn’t mind the company, it keeps his mind quiet.

 

In the end, he does reply. Connor, not even pretending he hasn’t literally had his phone on him all day for this moment, pulls it out of his pocket immediately. He taps iMessage open and finds the message waiting for him.

 

**Hank**

_(7:00PM)_

Sorry, was asleep

 

**Connor**

_(7:02PM)_

It’s okay, I figured.

Maybe next time?

 

**Hank**

_(7:04PM)_

You good with fast food

Got another long fucking night

 

_(7:05PM)_

But I want to see you too

 

Connor just stares at his phone, feeling an unexpected lump in his throat form at that last message especially. He swallows thickly, immediately tapping out a response. There’s no question what his answer will be. He will literally go to the Chicken Feed if he has to, at this point.

 

**Connor**

_(7:08PM)_

Where do you want to meet?

 

It’s not the Chicken Feed, thankfully. They end up just stopping at a local McDonalds purely because it’s close for the two of them. They find a corner to sit in and the conversation, unlike the first time they were out, is something approaching easy. He’s starting to realize the undercurrent of assumption Hank had had about the entire night – that Connor had been there more out of obligation than anything – had really colored things up until it all came out.

 

It’s nice to see him at ease. Or as much at ease as Connor imagines he can be – he’s learning a lot of Hank is just pure body language, actions instead of words. He’s starting to learn how to read it all, but he wants to get better.

 

There is no mistaking what it means when they kiss against his car after he drives him home, however. What starts as more talking – Hank clearly being reluctant to go to work – ends with a kiss that’s meant to simply say goodbye and sort of grows from there. Connor distantly is aware his lack of control around him is probably not the best thing, but it’s very hard to scold his body for seeking heat and touch when he’s pinned with his back against the car door.

 

It’s not even that he’s being forceful, either, which he is starting to very much be able to tell he easily could be. They moved into the position together, and Connor can feel him taking cues already, repeating things that are eliciting a response out of him. Hell, he seems to enjoy causing them, which is something good to know for future reference and also something he is pretty sure is going to lead to his death at some point. He’s already feeling a little boneless because of it all.

 

This was a terrible idea. This was a terrible idea because he likes this even more this second night and Hank absolutely needed to leave for work five minutes ago. To say there’s reluctance to part is an understatement.

 

“You’re going to be late,” Connor attempts to remind him, dutifully, even as his fingers tangle in his hair.

 

“Fuck work,” Hank huffs in response, and Connor exhales a breathless laugh. He presses one last kiss against the corner of his mouth before forcing himself to be the responsible one, gently pulling away. Putting space between their faces at least, because he’s still got him against the car and that’s not changing until he moves.

 

Hank looks _disappointed_ , a fact that makes Connor quietly pleased.

 

“Your hair is a mess,” he points out with a grin. Without thinking, he lifts a hand and tries to fix it, only thinking afterwards that it might’ve been too overfamiliar. He ventures a look at Hank’s face and finds a small smile there.

 

It’s relieving.

 

“Wonder who fucking did that,” he deadpans as Connor finishes making him look presentable.

 

“I fixed it,” Connor argues, laughingly, looking apologetic. Hank clearly does not buy him being sorry for a second. “Your partner’s not even going to notice.”

 

“You say that like I’d give a shit,” he snorts, finally stepping back and giving Connor some room to move. He slips away from the car, adjusting his clothes, because at some point his sweatshirt had gotten twisted. When he looks up at him again, he realizes Hank’s been staring at him. The older man looks away when their eyes meet, adding, gruffly, “…Gonna have to give me a bigger heads up next time, alright?”

 

Connor can tease him about why he wants more time, but he wholly agrees. This hadn’t been enough time by a long shot.

 

“Got it,” he replies, not hiding his smug look which he feels he entirely has a right to be there. Hank notices it, even in the gloom of the night, and snorts, shaking his head and turning to head toward the driver side of his car.

 

“Gonna drive me fucking nuts,” he swears as he goes, though there is a distinct amused tone to it.

 

“Goodnight, Hank,” he calls out, still grinning. He thinks he hears a mumbled goodnight in reply before the car door slams shut.

 

Connor texts him the next time he has off later on that night. He doesn’t agonize over whether or not it’s appropriate this time.

 

* * *

 

This is how they carve out time for each other the next few weeks.

 

Hank’s schedule becomes erratic a few days after because of a case he’s put on. He doesn’t talk about it when they’re together, not even a little bit, but Connor sees the slight shift in demeanor after it happens. It’s a situation where he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to push, so in the end he doesn’t at all. He does, however, get curious, and his curiosity yields him a guess.

 

There’s been a big story involving murders lately. Connor’s stomach twists a little when a glance through the paper leads him down the rabbit hole of a local story involving the suspicious death of some kids. Young, too, apparently, which just makes it worse. He doesn’t look too far into it once the article gives a general overview, though he very quickly realizes he’d never have the stomach to do the sort of things he can only imagine Hank has to deal with, has to see.

 

He tries his best in the face of that to be the thing he has to get away from it all. They text often. The few times they manage to get together, Connor picks places that are quiet and relaxing. He considers inviting him more than once and loses his nerve every time, much to his frustration. He knows that’ll be a conversation eventually, it has to be, but he almost feels bad potentially dumping it on him right now. After all, Hank seems content enough to be doing what they’re doing. Like it’s a break from whatever he’s dealing with any time they see each other.

 

Connor likes being that for him. He likes being distracting, which he likes to think he’s getting good at being. Hank still holds most things close to his chest, but it feels a whole lot like he’s been chiseling away at his exterior and finding he likes the person underneath, too. Still, Connor is the one that initiates the meetings, and it’s an honest surprise the morning Hank decides to change thate.

 

It’s an early October day when he hears the familiar ding of him getting a text. He’s surprised to find it’s something from Hank – who he honestly had assumed was asleep right now.

 

**Hank**

_(9:45AM)_

Hey kid

You have off today right

 

**Connor**

_(9:55AM)_

Yeah, why?

 

**Hank**

_(9:57AM)_

You know that park by your shop

 

_(9:59AM)_

Meet me there at 11

 

Connor stares at the message, a bit surprised, but there’s literally no reason to say no. He has errands, but errands can wait. It feels like there’s been less and less chances for their schedules to sync lately.

 

**Connor**

_(10:00AM)_

See you in an hour.

 

It’s a park he’s visited often enough, especially on nice – if cool – days like today. He considers stopping into work to get them coffee but decides against it, not feeling like the teasing questions he’d probably get or, worse, accidentally walking into a situation he might need to stick around for. No, he shows up empty handed and situates himself near the entrance. He taps out a message telling Hank his general location and sits on a bench to wait.

 

Hank ends up not being the thing to first greet him, as it turns out. It’s a few minutes into him waiting and honestly, he’s zoning out a little, not really paying attention. He snaps into awareness when he suddenly finds himself with a giant dog sticking its head in his lap. His hands fly up, freezing, but all the animal does is snuff at his stomach.

 

His eyes follow the leash the dog is attached to and finds Hank standing nearby.

 

It doesn’t take long for it to dawn on Connor what is happening.

 

“Sumo,” he realizes. That picture Hank had sent hadn’t done the dog any justice. His brain updates the dog’s status to absolutely _massive_ in comparison to just _big_. A smile slowly grows on his face as he tentatively offers the dog his hand to smell. Sumo licks it instead, showing off his impressive ability to leave slobber in his wake.

 

“Oh, gross, Sumo,” Hank grouses, even as Connor is seized by a small laughing fit because of it. It seems like he has his permission to pet him, which he accepts very willingly, his huge tail wagging back and forth. Hank joins the two of them at this point, nudging the dog enough so he can sit down too. Sumo completely ignores him in favor of the petting he’s getting from Connor. He looks between the two of them. “Shit, it’s like I’m watching myself get replaced right now.”

 

“I’m sorry, but I think I might be dognapping him,” Connor replies, scratching the dog behind both ears. Sumo practically melts. “You only have yourself to blame.”

 

He smiles at him after he says it, though, leaning over to press a kiss to his shoulder. The casual affection comes easier lately for him, especially in the face of Hank never responding poorly to it.

 

“Pretty bold to steal a dog from a cop,” he notes, lifting a brow.

 

“The risk feels worth the reward, Hank,” he counters, solemn, which nets him an eye roll. Still petting the dog, he asks, “Are we going to the dog park?”

 

Connor’s visited there too, honestly. He hadn’t been kidding about wishing he owned one – watching them occasionally sometimes scratched the itch. Didn’t need that today with Sumo around.

 

“Yeah,” he nods, scratching the side of his neck. “Usually take him once a week. Thought you’d like to come along.”

 

It’s a simple gesture, but one that means a lot to him. This is of course not something he admits to, wondering vaguely if Hank would understand even if he tried to explain it. So he just smiles at that, hopes that conveys he’s glad to be here.

 

“You mind me tagging along, boy?” he asks, tone pitched high to excite him. It does, of course, and he _‘boofs’_ loudly. There is no hiding the goofy smile on his face when it happens, he doesn’t even bother.

 

“Well, you heard the dog,” Hank gestures when Connor grins at him.

 

It’s not a long walk to the park. They wind along the increasingly leaf-covered pathway toward it, side-by-side. There’s a contented feeling settling in Connor that he just lets himself enjoy instead of overthinking it for once. He’s constantly trying to stay ten steps ahead of any situation usually, but for right now? Right now, he tries to stay right here. He ventures a look over at Hank and he seems pensive.

 

“What’s on your mind?” Connor prompts before he can talk himself out of asking. There’s a brief flash of some emotion on Hank’s face – guilt, maybe, or the realization he’s been caught? – but it’s gone just as quickly. Looking more neutral again, he shrugs.

 

“Nothing really,” he says, and Connor can’t help but feel like that’s a lie.

 

“Because you can talk to me,” he continues, casually. He’s been wanting to find a way to convey he doesn’t mind being a sounding board, but hadn’t really had a chance until now. He has no idea what he might be signing up to hear, but he wants to be there. It feels like a step they should be taking at this point.

 

Connor can see tension in his jaw before he lets out a slow exhale. “Yeah, kid, I got it. Like I said, it’s nothing.”

 

Connor _knows_ this is a lie now. He can see his options in front of him, to push or to let it go.

 

He lets it go. There’s no reason not to think he can’t try again later, to let this be a day that Hank can get away from whatever is on his mind. It seems like the right thing to do.

 

“Well, I’m here,” he settles on, letting the back of his hand brush against his larger one. He sees Hank’s expression soften a little, but he doesn’t look at Connor, staring straight ahead at the path in front of him.

 

“I know,” he reassures in a way that doesn’t feel very reassuring at all.

 

They continue walking.

 

It ends up being a nice day. The park is quiet because it’s a weekday, but there’s a few people and their dogs milling about to give Sumo a good time. He’s by and far the largest dog of the bunch, but it’s a non-issue. He’s as gentle as a lamb.

 

It’s a fitting sort of dog for Hank, he can’t help but think.

 

He also eventually unearths a long-hidden ball from a pile of leaves and that’s it, it’s all over, the two of them are expected to throw that thing until their arms fall off or he gets tired. It’s close, but they manage to tire the dog out first. Near mid-afternoon, he’s flopped over on his side and currently pinning Connor’s feet to the ground, panting heavily.

 

“I think you might need to carry him home,” Connor jokes. He doesn’t bother trying to move his feet, choosing to lean over and run his hand against the animal’s flank. Sumo manages to summon the energy to beat his tail against the ground to show his approval.

 

“He’s gonna have to get over it, because I don’t feel like fucking up my back,” Hank responds, dryly.

 

Connor laughs, because yeah, the mental image of even the two of them trying to drag him isn’t exactly pretty.

 

“We can wait until he gets his second wind,” Connor concedes. “It’s not like I have anywhere else to be anyway.”

 

They stay longer than Sumo really needs them to, Hank showing about as little interest in ending the day as Connor. Really, it’s only when the dog’s up and insisting on tiring himself out again that they both accept they ought to leave. Connor walks him to his car despite it being out of his way to do so. It’s worth the effort to spend a little more time with him. In the end, he even leaves the day feeling pretty good about how things were inching forward.

 

Turns out, he's impressively terrible at reading things.

 

It’s funny, really. Looking back on the day, Connor finds himself still so _sure_ there’s no finality in their parting that afternoon, nothing different in the way Hank had kissed him before he left. There's no moment at any point that day he can point to that he can think _ah yes, there it is, that's where Hank decided to ghost on me_. There’s just _nothing_ , no matter how many times he rolls the events of the day over in his mind.

 

It makes no sense whatsoever, and somehow? Somehow that just makes it even _worse_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boy, I sure set this story in autumn, didn't I. Hmm.
> 
> Chapter title comes from [Like Real People Do - Hozier](http://nullrefer.com/?https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yrleydRwWms).


	6. Unpack Your Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are at chapter 6. Thanks for hanging in there, guys, hopefully this is a bit of a balm from last chapter. Ahem..
> 
> As always, thank you so much for all the kind comments here and on twitter, along with kudos stuff, bookmarks, and all that. :) There's going to be a brief hiatus on this story (unless I can't help myself) because at the very least my next week is looking pretty busy. 
> 
> Keep an eye on my twitter ([@dathankconlife](https://twitter.com/dathankconlife)), as I'll be posting stuff there and chatting in general for any kind of update to the scheduling. Or, you know, just wander over and say hi. ;)

In the end, the worst part about it all is the lack of closure.

 

Connor is not new to disappointments. He’s _clearly_ not new to failed relationships, either. The concrete why never comes, and it’s been driving him nuts ever since. It’s usually easy to spot the _why_ in everything, especially when it comes to something like this. Some key moment where he can nod to and go _‘ah, there’s where I missed the signs’_. But he’s been over it, not just that day anymore but literally every conversation, every interaction – a month’s worth of relationship building – and there’s just –

 

Nothing.

 

Hank had not been a talker. He knows this. But Connor had liked to think he’d been getting a little better at reading him, and even if he hadn’t – what _was_ that last day together? Why invite him out? What had been on his mind when he’d caught him looking like he was deep in his own head? Why have a perfectly nice day and then just never speak to him again? What had he _gained_ from any of this? He hadn’t even gotten _laid_ , which would’ve been horrible but at least that could’ve worked as a reason for all of this and let him be able to be comfortably furious at him for _using_ him.

 

Because that’s the other thing. The thing that’s also driving him nuts.

 

He can’t bring himself to be mad.

 

He knows he should be. He _knows_. Something just doesn’t sit right with him about this, though. A part of him thinks he’s grasping at straws, but a not insignificant part of him continues to want to think the best of this person who, at this point – just shy of a month after their last day together – has clearly decided to toss him aside. There’s been a lot of weak moments in that month, times when he’d honestly considered marching over to the station he thinks Hank works in and demanding he talk to him. Times when he considers haunting that bar he happened to see him in on the off chance it’s a regular for him. Times when he considers taking North up on her offer of finding some way to get him back for whatever the hell this had all been. But he keeps himself in check, despite Hank not entirely deserving him to be so damn magnanimous in not making his life the kind of hell he’s made his.

 

The only thing at this point he _does_ allow himself is checking once in a while to see if he comes up in the news. To see if he’s been shot or injured– he never lets himself consider the idea of him being killed in the line of action, but it’s there as a fear in the back of his head – because that would explain a lot. Something would be there if something happened, he knows this. Hank is a lieutenant, a lieutenant getting hurt would surely be in the news.

 

But there’s no recent stories either. Absolutely nothing, once again. He feels like an ass every time he comes up with nothing and being disappointed, but -

 

God, it’d be easier if there were something. It’d be easier because then he’d be able to shake the idea that he simply left because there was something wrong with him that he can’t see.

 

None of these thoughts are things he shares for too long. He does in the beginning, of course, when it feels acceptable to be upset. It’s like Markus says, he has people, and his people are there. But eventually he stops talking about it all together, mostly out of embarrassment – _this shouldn’t hurt so much, why did you get attached so quickly, you idiot?_ – and he plays okay just as well as Hank does, apparently.

 

Things go back to normal – at least outwardly - slowly but surely.

 

He does his work. Chats animatedly with customers. Goes home and cares for his fish. In a way, his life is back to the normal he thought he was content with. He should be okay to be at this baseline again. He desperately wants to be, because he doesn’t know how to get back to that. He’d known getting involved with anyone would be trouble, but this?

 

This is worse than he expected.

 

For the umpteenth time, he finds himself declining an invitation to go out, citing some random excuse that he can’t even remember by the time he gets home. It’d been a harder day than usual, full of little things that have collected into a weight on his chest. He considers sleeping it off, knowing he doesn’t need to show up for work the next day. He also knows he has alcohol, and it’s the kind of night that ill-advised decisions don’t seem so bad.

 

The wine he pours for himself is usually only popped open during the few parties he throws during the year. Beggars can’t be choosers in this situation, he decides. It’s at least good stuff – a cold comfort, but a comfort nonetheless. Future Connor will be upset he wasted it. Current Connor cares so little he doesn’t even bother to pop the cork back on.

 

He gets through two and a half glasses when the bad decisions start to flow too.  It starts as a spark of anger he’s practically be craving to replace his sorrow – he didn’t do anything to deserve this, what kind of asshole just bails when things seemed to be going so well? He knows he isn’t perfect, but he’d been doing fine. He’d been doing fine – _they’d_ been doing fine - and this entire thing is absolute bullshit. Putting down his glass, he picks up his phone. The line of texts has been one sided for a while now when there used to be a back and forth. This makes him angrier, and he types out a message.

 

**Connor**

_(1:59AM)_

You know what? Fuck you.

 

It’s the first time he’s let himself lash out even slightly. There’s a vague hope when he does it that it’ll be the balm he’s been desperately seeking, but it isn’t, not even close. What he’s doing – and he knows this – is equivalent to screaming at a wall. He stares at his phone, as though maybe it’d make him respond. At least tell him to leave him alone. He’s pretty sure he’d take an attempt at pretending he’s got the wrong number at this point.

 

Time ticks by. His anger eventually ebbs, replaced by the current of hurt he’s been drifting on since this all started. He types without thinking again.

 

_(2:10AM)_

Just tell me why!

I deserve that much, Hank.

 

He puts aside the phone after he writes it out, picking up his wine again and draining the last of the glass. Putting it down beside his phone, he abandons both for his bed.

 

It’s not like he expects an answer.

 

* * *

 

He does not get one, to the literal surprise of no one.

 

Connor decides to let that be an answer in itself, even if he still doesn’t feel great about it.

 

It’s nearly Halloween. Holidays generally are a thing Connor enjoys as a whole, and though he’s not exactly in the mood this year, he’s tossed into his usual role as In Charge Of Decorations. This at least gives him something more than moping to do, a project that he can focus on and do well. This is something he needs to go out for after work instead of curled up in his apartment because excuses come too easy for him when responsibility isn’t involved.

 

He doesn’t go too crazy. Doesn’t make things too scary, either. But certainly, there’s decorations – spider webs, hanging skeletons, black cats. Orange and black lights line the walls. The usual tip jar is replaced with a little ghost holding out something to put money into. It takes a few days of on and off work to get things up. He gets help only when he really needs it. Honestly, he wants to extend this as much as he can.

 

There’s one person he actively decides to recruit to help is sort of an unofficial part of their little crew at the shop. Since Kara has been working here, there’s one or two days her daughter Alice ends up spending an hour before they both head home together. Connor has been making sure to keep age appropriate books since then, since she’s been gravitating toward the reading area.

 

She’s sitting there now, quiet as a mouse, as always. Though she’s gotten progressively less shy around them since she first showed up, it still feels a little like the kid is half-expecting any noise will get her kicked out. Kara had mentioned briefly about the trauma she’d gone through with her birth father. It makes his heart clench every time he thinks of it, makes him want to do something.

 

So he keeps interacting with her, with Kara’s permission. Little things he liked to hope to convey they all liked seeing her. Everyone else have done things too. North especially, no surprise there.

 

(She’s the one who got the first genuine smile out of her. It’d been impressive.)

 

“Hey, Alice,” he greets, head tilting to the side with a smile as she looks up. There’s a book in her lap, half read.

 

“Hello, sir,” she replies, softly. Connor has long since given up on gently prodding her to just use his name. Maybe one day.

 

“May I?” he asks, gesturing toward the seat beside her. She nods her permission, and he sits beside her, his hand clasped closed, facing up, on his thigh. She seems to note this, looking between his hand and him curiously. “I was wondering if you could help me for a minute?”

 

This gets her more interested. She puts the little bookmark into the book and gives him her full attention. “Okay?”

 

“I have a bunch of these fake spiders,” he says, opening up his palm to reveal just a couple of the tiny little plastic toys. “Do you think you can put them around the store? There’s lots of cobwebs that could use them. Here’s a couple to start with, if you need more, there’s a box on the counter. If you want, of course. I do think you’d be better at setting it all up than I would.”

 

She lights up a little at the praise and the task. After seeing her nod her head and hold out her hands, Connor places the ones he’s been carrying into her palm. The book abandoned for now, he watches her hop up and start over to the first fake cobweb nearby to start strategically placing them. Connor watches briefly, smiling, before putting aside her book for now. He can see Kara watching and smiling too, which is just a nice little bonus.

 

In the month or so she’s been working here, she’s been opening up much more too.

 

The task takes her about fifteen minutes to complete. He knows this because when she’s done, he feels a small hand tugging on his apron.

 

“I finished,” she announces, though she turns her head and looks up at some fake cobwebs put up among some of the decorations on the wall. “I can’t reach that one, though.”

 

Connor glances at the spot. He knows he could easily do it himself, but he offers, “Do you want me to do it or do you want help reaching it?”

 

She hesitates, considering the offer. “…I want help.”

 

Connor nods, wiping his hands on his apron before letting her walk him over. She’s a wisp of a kid, it takes very little – once he’s sure she’s okay with it – to lift her up with a ‘hup’ noise. He holds her steady as she places the last of the plastic spiders she’s been carrying on it. It’s only after she’s clear she’s done that he puts her down again,

 

“Perfect,” he praises, and he’s pretty sure he’s never seen her smile so wide.

 

Kara thanks him privately later, as if that were at all something he needed to be thanked for. It’d been a nice moment compounded on quite a few nice moments lately, ones that he’s starting to file away when his thoughts grow stormy. It is one of the few self-care things he learned ages ago that really stuck with him in therapy. That he’s been pulling from that time feels – well. He supposed it makes sense, in a way.

 

He does not think about it much farther than that.

 

Work’s busy enough afterwards that there’s little downtime. It’s how Connor likes it, honestly, keeps things from getting boring and letting his mind wander a little too much. He doesn’t really even check his phone until he’s well into halfway home and literally ends up stopping midstep to stare at his notifications.

 

Missed messages, all labeled Hank, because Connor had yet to actually delete him from his phone as much as he knows he should have. The first one came a half hour prior, around the time he’d been closing up. They came pretty rapidly – especially for him – after that. For a few brief moments, he considers deleting them all along with the actual text chain as one final middle finger to him.

 

He doesn’t, but it’s tempting. No, he unlocks his phone and opens the text chain to start reading from the beginning.

 

**Hank**

_(10:01PM)_

Can we talk

 

_(10:14PM)_

Fuck forget jt

 

_(10:15PM)_

I’m a piece kf shot thas why ok

 

_(10:17PM)_

You deserve bettr

 

_(10:19PM)_

Always did

 

_(10:23PM)_

Sorry

Goodbye

 

Connor just stares at the messages. He’d thought getting a concrete answer would’ve finally put an end to this. This is something approaching that, misspellings aside, but it just gives him more questions. Instead of typing back, he tries to call. It goes to voicemail, of course it does. Back to silence. Back to nothing. Is this all he’s going to have to explain all this?

 

Is this it? Is this all he’s going to get? It’s unacceptable. It’s _unacceptable_.

 

And with that thought, perhaps finally, something in him snaps. He’s hiring an Uber to drive him to where he knows he lives, ignoring the fact that for all he knows, he’s not even home. The rush of emotions carries him all the way over there. It takes him all the way up to his door. There’s light trickling out from the windows, even though all the flimsy blinds are drawn.

 

It’s almost eleven by then. He cares little for waking him up, if he’s even asleep, as he rings the doorbell. He does it again when nothing happens, adding a loud, “Hank? It’s me!”

 

This seems at least alert Sumo, who he can hear barking from behind the door. There’s no way he can’t hear him with that kind of noise, so he sidesteps the porch to peek into the window next to it instead. He half expects to find him sitting there, ignoring him. What he finds instead makes his blood run cold.

 

The entire ride to his place, he’d realized he had only been wondering _what_ he’d been thinking sending that after all these weeks. As he stares at Hank, slumped over at his kitchen table and not moving, the final message – and all of this timing – suddenly makes him wonder if he should’ve been questioning _why_ , after all these weeks, he’d decided to message him tonight.

 

The goodbye suddenly feels a whole lot more sinister, a little more final in ways that sends panic shooting up him.

 

Feeling his heart leap into his throat, he goes to the door again, banging on it hard. He tries the knob when that doesn’t wake him up, not expecting much, and is surprised to find it’s unlocked. He swings it open without thinking of all the laws he’s probably currently breaking by entering his house without permission. Sumo regards him with an unsure expression.

 

“Easy, boy, it’s me, remember?” he reassures, offering his hand before he tries barging past him and potentially causing even more of an issue by triggering the dog’s protective streak. He sniffs at his hand and Connor can see his tail start to wag, plopping down obediently, seemingly satisfied.

 

He slams the door behind him to make sure the dog doesn’t get out and makes a beeline to Hank, not even sure what kind of sight he’ll be greeted with when he gets there. The smell of booze is palpable as he comes to stand beside him. Whiskey, apparently, if the bottle next to him says anything. About the only relief is he can see his back rising and falling – he’s breathing – and there’s no sign of distress besides the obvious fact he’s currently out like a light.

 

“Hank! Hank, wake up!” he says, shaking him roughly. It takes a bit of jostling, but finally his eyes slide open slowly. He stares up at him, blinking in confusion, before recognition finally seems to take hold.

 

“Connor?” he realizes, the word slurred, eyes barely focusing on him. It’s been ages since he’s dealt with someone as drunk as he looks – not since college, probably – and it has him on edge immediately. “S’fuck are you doin’ here…?”

 

“Hank, how much did you drink?” he asks, scanning the area. Looking around, he spots a not insignificant amount of similar bottles littering the rest of the kitchen. If this is one night’s worth of drinking, his alcohol level is probably through the roof. He sees the older man’s eyes start drifting shut again. He shakes his shoulder immediately, which makes him drowsily open his eyes again. He repeats, “How much did you drink? Do I need to call someone?”

 

“No!”

 

It’s impressive how animated he gets at that question. He even lifts his head up, which, if judging by the way he looks, he immediately regrets. Connor puts a steadying hand on his shoulder, a little worried he might fall out of the chair.

 

“Don’t need it,” he insists, barely maintaining his sitting up status. “Y’shouldn’t be here.”

 

Connor’s lips form a thin, annoyed line at that, because _yes_ , he’s entirely right, he should not be here. He should not be here dealing with this, he should not be sick with worry because he has no idea what’s going on, but he’s still here.

 

“You’re going to fall out of this chair,” he sighs, ignoring his weak attempts at protests. “I need you to help me get you at least to the couch. Or do you need to go into the bathroom?”

 

He’s looking a little sick, honestly, now that he’s awake and Connor can see his face, see the grimace he’s making. If he’s going to need to puke, he’d rather it be in the toilet.

 

“Bathroom,” he requests after an overly long pause. Connor has a feeling he needed a second to process exactly what he’d been asked.

 

It is an honest miracle they make it over to it in time. Hank is just above dead weight, leaving Connor to struggle the entire handful of steps over to the bathroom, half stumbling. Hank is mumbling something under his breath that Connor can’t even begin to parse out and doesn’t bother trying for now, concentrating more on making sure they don’t end up both flat on their faces.

 

“Gimme – couple o’ minutes,” he requests when Connor finally is able to get him into the bathroom. The way Hank is already hugging the toilet makes the request something easily granted.

 

He is just grateful he gets the door closed quickly enough. A few moments after, he hears the telltale sounds of Hank puking up what is probably a good deal of his stomach contents and he’s good with not witnessing that. He steps away from the door and into the main room just so he doesn’t need to quite hear it as much. Sumo has settled since the excitement of Connor coming in, and he pauses long enough to give him a proper rub behind the ears. He’s rewarded with a slobbering lick against his cheek, which, despite the hell that is his current position and what just seeing the dog is bringing up in his memories, makes him smile.

 

And then he’s back to realizing how incredibly awkward this is, every single part of this, including the fact he’s milling about by himself in Hank’s house now. He clasps his hands behind his back as he sort of paces the small two rooms he feels comfortable and appropriate being in – the living room and the kitchen.

 

Both are messes. The sort of mess that comes from accumulation. He frowns at the sight of it all, because all of it makes him feel like how he found him is not the first time he’d ended up that way lately. He lingers in the kitchen, staring at all the emptied bottles, and his eyes eventually fall on what looks like a picture frame of all things.

 

It’s in such an odd place – right in the middle of the table – that he breaks his own self-imposed rule of not touching anything and picks it up carefully, turning it over to see what it is. What he finds surprises him.

 

It’s a picture of a boy.

 

He has the same striking blue eyes as Hank.

 

He has a lot of the same features as Hank, actually. The whole thing makes his stomach clench in an uncomfortable way, especially seeing as though he’d been drinking while he was looking at the picture. Connor isn’t a detective, but he certainly can assume a couple of things, none of them good. Putting it back the way it had been laying on the table, he passes it up to go through his cupboards instead, eventually finding what appears to be a clean mug. He fills it up with water before heading back to the door. There’re no noises, which feels like it could be a good or bad thing.

 

He knocks on the door just in case.

 

“Hank?” he calls out, his nerves honestly frayed at this point. The panic that had struck him the moment he saw him slumped over is gone now, replaced by a fatigue that has him feeling exhausted. “You alright in there? Can I come in?”

 

A miserable-sounding noise of affirmation is the response he gets, so he opens the door and finds he’s sitting on the ground of his bathroom, propped up by the bathtub behind him. Able to get a good look at him now, he looks –

 

Not good.

 

And not in the ‘I just binged on alcohol’ sort of not good way, though that’s certainly contributing. The bags under his eyes remind him of how he looked when his insomnia was at his worst and he was barely getting a few hours every couple of days. His outfit is stained and looking in need of a good wash. His hair hangs limply in his eyes.

 

He refuses to meet Connor’s gaze, saying nothing.

 

Connor quietly sighs, kneeling beside his outstretched legs regardless of all of that – regardless of everything that’s happened. He hates he wants to brush the hair from his eyes, barely containing himself from doing it. He hates that all the anger that had propelled him here has vanished and replaced by pure, deep concern. He hates a lot of things, the chief of which that now, seeing him in front of him, he realizes he still doesn’t hate Hank at all when it’d make everything so much easier.

 

Holding out the mug he grabbed, he looks at him expectantly. “Here. Drink some sips, it’s just water. Can you hold it yourself?”

 

Hank finally looks at him. The look on his face is a mix of embarrassment and guilt as he carefully holds out his hands and takes the mug. He takes a sip, then another, clearly not needing Connor to remind him to go slow. He hands the mug back and Connor takes it.

 

They just stare at each other for a long moment. It's a little like they are strangers again, only worse, because there has never been the wall he feels between them that he feels now. It springs a lot of emotions up in him again, all of which he doesn’t know if he can deal with right now. He's definitely sure Hank is not coherent enough to discuss them, either.

 

“We should get you off this floor,” he settles on, putting the cup aside. Hank makes no movement to find a way to help with that task. Instead, he just stays where he’s sitting.

 

“Why?” he asks, his voice hoarse. Connor blinks at him.

 

“Why should we get you off your bathroom floor?” he asks, not quite expecting to need the finer details of why this is not someplace he should pass out. Hank’s shakes his head.

 

“Why’re you here?” he clarifies, speaking every word slowly, attempting to annunciate it when it’s clear words are currently difficult to string together.

 

Connor doesn’t respond immediately, not sure if he knows the answer to the question anymore. It’d been infinitely easier before all of this, when he had been completely in the dark and able to simply be livid about how he’d been treated. It’s now abundantly clear to him that there’s more to this and, perhaps against his better judgment, that _matters_. He can’t pretend it doesn’t.

 

“I don’t know,” he replies truthfully, because there’s no sense in lying right now. He looks Hank in the eye afterwards, his tone shifting to something harder. “Tell me to leave and I will, though. All you need to do is say it.”

 

The challenge is unsaid but is still abundantly clear: _say it to my face this time instead of just disappearing. I dare you._

 

He wants to hear it his answer. Wants to see if what he feels like he’s starting to guess is right. Wants to see if he’s wrong, too, so if he is, he’ll finally be able to move on. He will be furious about this all again later no matter what, but right now, he knows he is intimately familiar with self-sabotage and what it looks like. He is familiar with purposely trying to burn bridges, to not let them build up to begin with.

 

It’s easier to be alone even when it’s the worst thing anyone could possibly do. It’s also easier to burn them when the person isn’t looking. Connor is looking now, refusing to let him take that way out again.

 

“Do you want me to?” he prompts again when he gets no answer, waiting.

 

“No,” Hank responds, finally, a vulnerability in his voice that Connor isn’t expecting. “Stay.”

 

He knows he is well within his rights at this point to leave, to make Hank feel exactly how he’d been feeling since they last spoke. It’s an ugly thought, but one he can’t bring himself to be ashamed of, not after the month he’d had. It’s also not one he acts on, letting the thought drift away instead of acting on it. Instead, he nods and stands up. Hank watches him, looking a little like he’s expecting him to turn and leave.

 

“Like I said, then,” he begins, already moving to help him up. “Let’s get you off the floor.”

 

It’s a little easier to get him on his feet this time. His balance is shot to hell, but he’s more alert now, needing Connor more to just keep him steady instead of forcing him to half-carry him. When they’re out of the bathroom, he looks between the last room of the house and the living room and turns to the room, knowing it must be his bedroom by process of elimination.

 

The room is dark when they enter. It’s not quite as messy as the rest of the house, though he does need to dodge a few discarded pieces of clothing as they slowly make it to the bed. There’s an attempt to not just dump him onto it, but that's sort of what happens anyway. Despite everything, a small chuckle just sort of sneaks out of him when he hears the unhappy, muffled sound Hank makes with his face pressed into the pillow. He helps him get onto his side as Hank pulls his legs up onto the bed, sliding them under the unmade blanket. When he’s situated, Connor pulls the blanket up to his hip, knowing he can pull it up more if he wants to.

 

He stands up straight then, only to find his wrist grasped. He blinks down at Hank, surprised.

 

“Connor,” he murmurs, an edge to his tone.

 

When he does not continue the statement but also doesn’t let go, he has a feeling what he’s trying to convey.

 

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promises, and the grip loosens, his hand dropping back to his side.

 

Connor will tell himself later it’s less about the request and more that he knows you’re not supposed to leave a drunk person unattended to sleep it off. It is a lie that only can last so long, he knows, but it makes him feel a little better when he texts Markus a lie about being sick and not thinking he’ll make it in tomorrow. It makes him feel better as he settles into the uncomfortable, unused single chair near his bed, realizing there is a very real possibility Hank will remember none of this when he wakes up and shut down on him again when the alcohol isn’t there anymore to disarm him.

 

Hank is snoring not long after he is laid down. Connor isn’t sure how long he stays awake just listening and wondering what he’s gotten himself into, but he eventually drifts off too.

 

* * *

 

He wakes up to the unfamiliar sensation of a giant dog head in his lap. It takes him a moment to realize Sumo had shoved his way into the room and is looking up at Connor with the expectant expression of a dog waiting for someone to take it outside. His gaze shifts to Hank and finds he’s still fast asleep. Glancing at the time – just after nine – he wonders how long he’ll be like this.

 

Better to take care of the dog just in case.

 

After running his hand through the dog’s fur, he gently nudges his head off his lap so he can stand. And boy, is standing an experience after being scrunched into a tiny, lumpy, uncomfortable chair the entire night. He has to stretch a little until his back finally audibly cracks. It doesn’t entirely fix the ache, but oh, it helps at least a little.

 

He quietly heads out of the room. Sumo, seemingly understanding he is going to get what he wants from Connor, follows at his heels. He shuts the door to his bedroom behind him, stifling a yawn as he walks into the main room. In the light of the day, the mess is even clearer now. It takes him a little while to find where Hank had carelessly thrown the dog’s leash. He takes him out into the side area of the house to go to the bathroom and no farther, realizing full well that this is not his dog and he still very much isn’t sure what not drunk Hank is going to think about him being in his house.

 

He does know he has the choice to leave. He’s even aware he probably should take the opportunity before things go inevitably south. He doesn’t, though, because if he desires anything, it’s for all of this to be over, and nothing right then feels remotely over. At this point, he isn’t even sure what over looks like, but he does know the only way he's going to get out of this open-ended hell is to just face this head on. At the very least – the _very_ least – he can make it clear how not okay any of this had been.

 

Besides, he made a promise. One he doubts Hank will even remember him making, but his word is something he considers important keeping.

 

So after he makes sure Sumo is tended to – and yes, Hank looks like he’s at least been on top of that, because everything else in the kitchen might be barren but there’s a full bag of dog food – he realizes he’s going to need to get himself fed at some point.  The numerous wrappers and take out boxes littering the kitchen area don’t give him much hope for what he’s going to find in the fridge. To his credit, it is not as gross as he’s expecting, but it’s also pretty barren. About the only things not spoiled are various packets of condiments he seems to have thrown into the fridge and the eggs. Though only three of them are missing from the dozen available. It’s so close to the end date of their usefulness that he decides to just use them all.

 

If Hank makes a big deal, he will personally pay for them.

 

To his credit, he continues to move as little as possible around, despite everything in him wanting to just – clean. Clean _everything_. It’s going well, he’s practicing self-control, he’s showing restraint. In retrospect, he probably should’ve known better than to wander over to see if he can somehow scrounge together the ability to make himself coffee. But no, he decides despite _every other part_ of his house being a mess, surely the coffee pot would be fine.

 

It is not fine.

 

Every bit of self-control is gone in that moment.

 

The problem is twofold. The first is Hank’s choice of coffee that he finds waiting for him, which, for what it’s worth? He can forgive it, he can _absolutely_ forgive it, because he can at least _accept_ not everyone cares about the actual taste of the coffee they’re drinking. He’s a snob about things, but he’s not _unreasonable_. The real problem is the coffee machine itself. While it’s _at least_ not a k-cup machine, it’s also very clear he has not cleaned the thing properly in _ages_. Probably longer than he’s known Connor, which is months too long. Sterilizing it would require him to clean the sink out to give himself room, so he starts doing the dishes to accomplish this.

 

This is how Hank finds him, valiantly attempting to tame what is probably a week’s worth of dishes. He doesn’t even realize he’s approaching until he’s basically right behind him, lingering close enough that his presence is impossible to miss.

 

It startles the hell out of him.

 

“Shit,” he swears, jumping away a little, the plate he’d been scrubbing clattering into the warm, soapy water in the sink. He looks up to see Hank, looking pretty wrecked – unsurprisingly – staring at him. “Oh. Hank.”

 

Yes, Hank. He says it as though it would be anyone else in this house. Luckily, he is not the only one stating the obvious here.

 

“You’re still here,” he realizes, looking – well, he’s looking something.

 

Surprised, but not in a bad way? It’s not that he’s hopeful for him to react positively, but he wants to read the room to make sure he’s prepared for how badly this is going to go. This was much easier when he’d been in a rage the day before, but the feeling’s heavily blunted by now. He can't pull from it anymore.

 

“Yes, I am,” he replies, squinting at him a little to try to gauge him. It is about as easy as it always is to read him. Apparently some things don’t change. “Um, just let me –“

 

He reaches over to turn off the water, because Hank may have ditched him and made him feel like shit, but it still feels like it’d be rude to overflow his sink. Hank looks between him and it, clearly…unsure, to put it mildly.

 

“Why are you doing my dishes?” he asks, as though the entire concept of doing the dishes is news to him.

 

“Your coffee pot is atrocious,” he replies, in a way that conveys that he thinks this is a total normal thing for him to be hung up on right now. Everything in his house is atrocious, for that matter, which he does not say, but it’s on a mental list to bring up at some point if he has the chance. The list is itemized by importance, since he understands that at any time, he’s going to get thrown out. Or he’s going to be mad enough to leave, which is also a very possible scenario. “And I was waiting for you to wake up.”

 

He looks him in the eye as he says that. It’s a look that says he does not care how much his head is pounding right now, the conversation is going to be starting. He seems to get this, ambling over to the chair Connor found him in the night before, sitting down heavily in it. He rubs at his face, trying to wake himself up.

 

“Fucking thought you might’ve been a dream,” he admits, not quite looking at him. Sumo trots over to greet him, sitting beside his owner. Hank absently strokes his fur.

 

“You left your door unlocked,” he explains unprompted, in case he’s wondering how he got in in the first place. A lucky break, honestly, because he certainly wouldn’t have tried to get through a window. Probably. “You scared the shit out of me, by the way.”

 

He grimaces. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

 

Connor scoffs, almost impressed at how quickly he’s finding that anger he lost the other day. It propels him forward when conflict is something he generally shrinks from. “Clearly, because apparently you thought I’d be satisfied with a couple of text messages. Fuck you, by the way.”

 

Hank looks like he’s about to say something in response. Connor does not give him the chance.

 

“No, let me talk. I have no idea what is going on with you right now,” he begins, gesturing to the mess in front of him. He’s suddenly glad he’d resisted cleaning it up, because being able to present it like Exhibit A of something clearly being very wrong is useful. “But it didn’t give you the right to do what you did to me. Do you know how shitty a month I’ve had because of you? Do you even care? Apparently not, if you had to get wasted to even reply once to me.”

 

Hank bristles at that, the first real reaction Connor’s seen besides this overwhelming sorrow that seems to be hanging over him. Good. “I was doing you a _favor_.”

 

He's certainly doing him a favor _now_ , because now he's definitely seeing red.

 

“No, you were making it easier for yourself and you know it,” he shoots back, not even letting him go there. He’d be offered no ability to self-congratulate himself on what a good job he did shutting down on him. “Because all of this? Whatever’s happening right now? I would’ve helped you through it without question. _Without question_ , Hank. And I think you knew that. I think it scared you.”

 

The simple statement of fact seems to knock whatever wind Hank had in his sails. He stares at his hands on the table instead of him. Connor feels his anger falter a little as his own words sink in and he realizes that wow, does he still care, as horrible an idea that's looking right now. There’s a reason he’d jumped to action last night. There’s a reason he hadn’t left him to stew in his misery on the floor of his bathroom when he asked him to stay. There's a reason, more than closure, that he waited today to discuss this.

 

There’s a reason that underneath his anger is just an undercurrent of worry that he doesn’t deserve right now after what he’s done, but it’s there anyway. Hank is silent, stone faced, and Connor recognizes the expression. It’s one he’s _also_ familiar with, one he had the many times he entirely shut himself down when he was resisting what people were trying to tell him. He takes a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. When he feels the anger ebb a little, he takes the few steps toward him, reaching out and covering his hand with his own.

 

The touch does seem to pull Hank out of his own head. He looks up at him, guilt etched across his features.

 

 “There’s a picture on the table. Who is it?” Connor prompts, quietly.

 

He is not sure how Hank will react to this. What he does know is that if there is a moment this will all blow up, it will be here. He prepares himself for it, but the lashing out never comes. Instead, he sees Hank’s shoulders hunch up, his posture practically screaming ‘defeated’.

 

“Why do you even care, Connor?” he asks, sounding weary. “I got it, I’m a piece of shit. I should’ve handled this better and I didn’t. I’m sorry, alright? I fucked up.”

 

For as much as he knows the apology is sincere, he knows deflection when he sees it, too.

 

“You did fuck up, you’re right,” he concurs, because yeah, it’s not like he’s about to disagree just to make him feel better. “The thing is, though? If I actually thought you were a piece of shit, I wouldn’t still be here. I know you find it hard to believe, but I enjoyed my time with you. And maybe you didn’t feel the same way, and that’s fine, I’ve said what I needed to say. But if all of this has been you convincing yourself – god, I don’t even know anymore – then maybe we can work through that. I’m willing to try. But this can’t be a one way street, and you can’t – you can’t pull this on me again.”

 

Hank says nothing. Connor is not sure why it’s a surprise to him anymore. It hurts, it hurts a lot, but at least this time, well - now he knows. This is that 'over' moment he'd been looking for, a moment where he can feel like he’d done all he could to make this work. He steps back, drawing his hand away like it's suddenly been burned.

 

He can take a hint.

 

“Right, okay,” he exhales shakily, inwardly wincing at himself because boy is he still terrible at masking his hurt, isn’t he? He at least keeps a straight, neutral expression, which is a miracle in itself. He thinks about trying to muster up anything else but he’s got nothing. No, he really just wants to leave, so he says, simply, “Goodbye, Hank.”

 

He starts walking away then, toward the door. He gets about four steps when he’s stopped by a hand around his wrist. Glancing over, it’s hard not to feel a little déjà vu from the night before. Hank’s grip isn’t tight, but it is firm, clearly having no interest in allowing him to move. Connor doesn't fight it, but he feels his impatience rising rapidly.

 

“His name was Cole. He would’ve been nine earlier this month. I fucking hate this month,” Hank intones quietly.

 

Connor feels himself freeze. The past tense usage is not lost on him, and he feels his stomach twist as the realization sinks in, especially when Hank finally looks up and he just looks _exhausted_. A kind of exhausted that’s almost palpable, that goes beyond the fact he’d gotten black out drunk the night before. Had he always looked this way? Had he entirely missed all of this in the time they were together?  It's something for him to consider later. For now, he focuses on suddenly having an answer to his question, except it only opens up so much more.

 

Questions he is sure Hank knows are going to exist. Questions he’s willingly, for the first time, opened himself to be asked about. The significance is also not lost on him, the implicit trust he's putting in him.

 

“Shit,” he exhales, not even sure where to start.

 

Hank’s gaze, for once, is trained on him. “Yeah.”

 

Connor swallows the lump that’s grown in his throat when he notices how piercing a look he’s getting. It dawns on him that that Hank is now waiting to see how he reacts, actively studying him in a way he almost imagines he probably studies suspects. He distantly wonders if he's trying to gauge whether or not he's rapidly deciding to change his mind on the entire offer. Their relationship had only just begun, and this is – this is a lot. This is a lot, more than Hank expects him to ever want to take on.

 

As much as he still is wildly not okay with what he’d done, Connor feels like he’s starting to understand why everything happened the way it did, even if he only has one piece of what feels like a massive puzzle. Still, Hank clearly in a precarious mood, and as much as leaving very much feels like the last thing he’d consider, he does pause long enough to be sure this is what he wants.

 

Hank seems to take this longer-than-normal time for him to respond as his answer. Feels his hand slip away from his wrist. Dully, he offers, “It’s fine, kid. I get it. Thanks for putting up with my shit last night. Make sure you watch Sumo doesn’t get out when you leave.”

 

For once, Connor doesn’t take offense to the assumption. He does, however, entirely ignore what is basically Hank giving him an out to leave.

 

“I’m not actually going anywhere, you know. You’re welcome for the help, though,” he shrugs, earning him a surprised look from the older man. He reaches down to pet Sumo near him before stepping away, not toward the door, but toward the kitchen area. Despite feeling like he’s been thrown into the deep end of a pool he’s not entirely sure he knows how to swim in, his decision feels right. This all feels right. Glancing over his shoulder, he adds, “I’m going to make myself some eggs. Do you want some?”

 

A brief moment of confusion crosses his face before all of this seems to finally sink in: Connor is making breakfast because he is not leaving. He is making breakfast because this conversation is going to be heavy enough without making it worse by having Hank deal with it without getting anything in his stomach after a night of heavy drinking and Connor starving along with him. It seems as though he's been so prepared for disappointment, he's caught off guard and unsure of how to respond now that he's not going. In the end, he seems to default to his general countenance.

 

“Sure, invite yourself to my shit,” he responds gruffly, letting out a cough-laugh that suspiciously sounds wet with an emotion Connor can’t see because he looks away as he does it.

 

“I’ll take that as a yes on the eggs,” he prods, grabbing the pan. It’s one of the first things he had cleaned earlier, before he’d been interrupted.

 

“Yeah, yeah, if you’re fucking offering,” Hank sighs, waving him off to do his thing. He then falls silent, sitting back as Connor finds the bare minimum of what he needs to accomplish the task. Midway into cooking enough for all three of them – because of course he’s making Sumo some, too - he senses Hank sliding up beside him. He looks over to see him slowly taking over the dishes that he’d left soaking in the sink, body language still a little pensive and tense.

 

No words feel right in the moment, so all he does shift until he can lean slightly against his side, hoping the contact helps ground him. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see his expression soften a little, even though he doesn’t look up from his task. Then, just slightly, he feels Hank tentatively lean into him too, a wordless acceptance of his attempt at comfort.

 

It’s hard not to notice the silence between them isn’t so stifling anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title song this time around is [Unpack Your Heart - Phillip Phillips](http://nullrefer.com/?https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JdZqyh7xqxE).


	7. I'd Be Lying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hello there. Here I am, back again after my tiny break, with a new chapter. This one has some canon-typical background nods for Hank, so if any of that was upsetting to you, be wary.
> 
> Thank you, as always, for all the kind comments, kudos, bookmarks, etc. I've been enjoying the heck writing this and part of that is because I know you guys are digging it too.
> 
> Find me over on twitter at [@dathankconlife](https://twitter.com/dathankconlife)

It is, unsurprisingly, a little easier being in someone’s house when you know you’re welcome there. Connor supposes it helps that he isn’t readying himself for a fight at any moment to break out. It’s not as though things are completely normal – no, they still haven’t really even begun to talk – but the fact that they’re talking at all is something that he hadn’t been entirely sure was going to be a result of all of this a few hours ago.

 

And yeah, he wants to ask. They’re sitting together in the living room area, eating the eggs Connor had tossed together. He tried to spruce them up with what little he could, but they were a plain affair, lacking much taste. He is expecting Sumo to devour them – and he does - but what he doesn’t expect is seeing how much Hank seems to like them, too. Maybe it’s been a while since he last had a decent meal.

 

He wouldn’t be surprised, given the current rest of the state of his fridge and his place in general. A state he again surveys and decides it’s an easier topic to broach than his son to start with.

 

“I’d like to help clean up,” he suggests. Hank glances up from his plate, then glances around them. A slight look of embarrassment crosses his face, like maybe it isn’t until this moment he let himself see how bad it’d gotten. It’s not a judgment thing at all, though, so he makes sure to add, “You’ve been having a shitty month. I get it. I like cleaning, though, and I just so happen to have a free day. Unless you have work?”

 

This is apparently another land mine, one he does not know is there this time. “…No, no work. I was suspended.”

 

Connor’s eyebrow lifts. Hank scowls immediately.

 

“I know what you’re thinking. I wasn’t drunk on the job. Fuck, last night was the first night in a while I drank that heavily. Probably would’ve fucking made a fool of myself with you earlier otherwise,” he admits. Connor can’t exactly say anything against that when he understands he’d done something similar the night when he drank a little too much wine. What’s the actual issue here is the moment it dawns on him at least a majority the bottles of alcohol he’s spotted were apparently drained in one night. He’s _lucky_ he hadn’t needed that hospital. “What actually happened was I nearly came to blows with a suspect. Fucker deserved the black eye I was going to give him, I don’t care what anyone says.”

 

He remembers, vaguely, the case he’d guessed Hank had been working on when they’d been together. If he’d been right, it involved children getting hurt. It doesn’t take much to connect why his emotions might’ve been frayed enough to lose his cool if he’d been right – especially on this month of all the months.

 

“You know, I was called unstable and that I needed a break,” he continues, huffing out a strained laugh at the mere thought. Connor notes him glancing around again, absently stroking a hand through his beard. He eventually makes a frustrated noise. “Like sitting around fucking helps with that. I don’t do well being still.”

 

Connor remembers how he’d been shortly before Markus tapped him to help him start the business. How easy it’d been to fall into his own head. Idly scratching the fur of Sumo’s neck – he’d settled next to him when he had sat down earlier – he murmurs, “I know the feeling.”

 

It takes a moment to realize Hank is studying his face at that comment. “Yeah?”

 

This feels dangerously like he might be asked questions himself. Now, he _realizes_ this is a pot meet kettle moment, but it’d been hard _enough_ to tell him how bad the month had been, to have to sit and explain it all even further is the last thing he wants to go through. Besides, this is about Hank, right?

 

Right.

 

Before Hank can start prodding, Connor changes the subject - or changes it back, really. He attempts to even make the transition sound natural. “So. The cleaning.”

 

The transition back does not sound natural at all.

 

As it turns out, he is still a very bad liar. It’s a problem with his normal friends, the ones who _didn’t_ go to whatever training lieutenants need to go through to eventually become lieutenants, and it’s certainly a problem now. Hank continues to stare at him and Connor continues to attempt and fail at looking completely casual. His casual is about as casual as the loud shirt Hank has on right now.

 

He then does something unexpected and sort of shrugs to himself. _Shrugs_.

 

It seems like he’s not going to push. Connor is aware it is most certainly a conscious decision on his part and not because he managed to convince this person who has probably made someone cry and confess on the spot at least once that he isn’t side-stepping something. He can imagine him mentally filing it away though, to be pulled out later and waved in front of him, which is fine. That’s fine.

 

(This is also a lie. He bets Hank is somehow filing that one away too.)

 

“Right,” Hank agrees, though his expression has not at all shifted from what Connor is now labeling his lieutenant face. It is a little unnerving. “What about you? No work?”

 

“No, no work,” he confirms, opting not to mention he lied to get out of it. He knows Markus is going to ask about it out of concern and he’s going to need to figure out how to deal with that when the time comes. That’s for later, though. “I would’ve left before the sun came up and that wasn’t going to happen. Even if I wanted to leave before you got up, I’d call what I did in that uncomfortable chair in your room ‘sleeping’ only generously.”

 

Hank squints at him. “You were -?”

 

Connor does not need to feel defensive in admitting he was in his room last night. He feels it anyway, briefly. “They say not to leave a drunk person alone. It was either the chair or the floor. You were pretty insistent I stick around anyway.”

 

The older man grimaces at that, just a little. Connor doesn’t dwell on it, which he hopes Hank reads as him not making a big deal out of it. Besides, dwelling on it also means he’ll have to dwell on his own feelings and, well, cleaning is easier, isn’t it? “Don’t worry about it, alright? Now, can I at least start with your coffee pot and see if we want to move on from there?”

 

Because, no really, he’s not leaving until he _at least_ does that. Hank either doesn’t have it in him to argue or he knows it’s a losing battle because eventually he just motions for him to go ahead. Permission gained, it doesn’t take him long to get to it and it quickly proves to be a Task. Hank doesn’t take long to meander back into the kitchen, sitting at the table and watching him struggle with the old machine, refusing to give up on it. Connor’s content to not talk at first, but there’s questions mounting in his head that he knows he’s not going to just be able to keep ignoring.

 

“I read in the papers a few weeks back about a case involving kids,” he speaks, not even trying to act like he’s being conversational. He goes straight to the point of things. “Is the suspect from that the one you tried to punch?”

 

He hears him exhale an annoyed grunt. He doesn’t look over his shoulder at him, feeling a little like maybe he needs a chance to collect himself with no one watching him.

 

“Yeah. Got me kicked off the case, too,” he mutters, sourly. Connor is not surprised to hear this but does not say as much. It’s not like he even disagrees, but he can imagine the problems that can arise. “Anyone would get worked up over this shit.”

 

It’s his turn to hesitate as he tries to find the most delicate way to say what he’s thinking. In the end, nothing really feels right, so he just admits, “You changed around when you got put onto it, even before you decided to disappear on me. Or was that only because of the month?”

 

This is met with silence. The kind of silence that is uncomfortable and stifling, one he wants to try to get rid of but forces himself to be patient. Finally – finally – he hears him sigh.

 

“Fuck, kid, I don’t know. You’re probably right,” he allows, quieter than before. He sounds pained to admit him being right, but he does it, and Connor knows that’s a big deal. “I just remember you actually being concerned and knowing I definitely didn’t deserve that kind of energy out of someone who could do better than me. Yeah, fuck, I went about it the wrong way, but I didn’t think –"

 

He trails off. Feeling the weight of the conversation becoming heavy again, Connor puts aside what he’s doing, dries his hands, and finally turns to face him. He’s already not looking at him again.

 

“Didn’t think what?” he prompts, leaning against the counter behind him.

 

Hank doesn’t answer at first, a noticeable scowl at the prodding there. When it’s clear he’s not getting away with not answering, he motions to him with a flick of his hand, replying, “I said it before. Look at you and look at me. The idea you’d get hung up on me never even fucking crossed my mind. Obviously I was wrong, but shit.”

 

Connor crosses his arms against his chest. He considers cluing him into how things had been before they met right now, uncomfortable or not, but it’s complete honestly that he’s still a little worried it might make him feel guilty. Connor is aware he’s within his right to make him feel that way, but it feels a little like kicking someone when he’s already down. He’d gotten out already how much he’d been hurt, that had been enough.

 

“I need you to stop thinking I could do better,” he settles on, because he’s not even sure how they can sustain anything if he doesn’t stop comparing himself to the idea he has of People Who Deserve Him. “I felt a connection with you and chased it. For the first time in a long time, if I’m being honest. Not someone else, you.”

 

Hank seems at a loss of what to say to that. Connor doesn’t expect an answer, knows this isn’t really something he can expect to change overnight. He says it anyway, wants to make it clear and out there so there’s no question about how he feels. It’s a good place to start.

 

“You’re fucking something, you know that?” Hank finally responds, sounding _amused_ of all things. Amused and a little awed.

 

Connor just smiles as he turns around and goes back to cleaning. Over his shoulder, he replies, simply, “I like to think so.”

Cleaning his coffee pot does eventually spread to the whole house. After all, there’s very little reason to stop beyond having to deal with a little while of Hank insisting he really doesn’t have to. Eventually he even joins him, though he works at a far slower pace. It helps having a second person tidying up, though, and it’s probably just good to get Hank moving, even if he’s still nursing a hangover.

 

There’s only one moment Connor really pauses, and it’s when he pokes his head into the bathroom to survey what needs to be done. In the chaos of the night before, he’d barely glanced at the bathroom’s mirror. He’s looking at it now, though, because it’s very hard to miss the post-it notes dotting the wall. He draws closer to read them. Most of them seem old and a little discolored, but one seems fresh and new. There’s a single word on it.

 

_Apologize?_

 

He stares at it for a long moment, wondering if it’s presumptuous to assume it’s about him.  He already said he had no interest in apologizing for what he’d done at work. Either way, he finds the post-it notes pad off to the side, a pen placed next to it, and scrawls a quick note himself.

 

_Apology accepted._

 

He carefully sticks it underneath his note. Maybe the original hadn’t been about him at all, but it seems like he won’t mind seeing it either way. After putting the pad and pen back, he heads back to work.

 

It takes the better part of the morning and well into the afternoon. It’s just enough manual labor to leave him tired and achy by the end of it, and when he deems them Done – or as Done as it’s going to get – he collapses onto the couch, slouching deep into the worn cushions. Hank doesn’t take long in joining him. He tilts his head back, rubbing his temples.

 

“This has to be the fucking first time I have ever cleaned while hung over,” he groans, making a big show of how put out he is about this entire situation. It’s as dramatic as he’s ever seen the man, and Connor has to bite back a small smile.

 

“It’s done now at least,” he offers helpfully, nudging his knee lightly with his own. “You feeling any better?”

 

He does not only mean today, though today is certainly packaged in. Hank seems to pick this up, dropping the _mostly_ fake griping for the moment.

 

“Not going to make a repeat of last night, if that’s what you’re asking,” he replies, wincing. “Fuck, I remember why I stopped doing this shit.”

 

Connor tilts his head toward him, studying his profile. Finally, he asks, “So what did make you drink last night?”

 

It’s not a question he seems like he’s expecting, to the point it takes him a few moments to respond, clearly putting some thought into it. It doesn’t seem like he ever comes up with a satisfactory answer, because he eventually shrugs a little helplessly.

 

“Combination of everything,” he admits. Connor is not surprised by this answer – everything had to have just come to a head, he can understand that - but he is surprised by him looking over after he says it and adds, “You can ask, you know.”

 

There’s no need for clarification, he knows what he means.  It’d be an absolute lie to say he hadn’t been agonizing over when to bring up their earlier conversation all day, because there’s really no easy way to casually ask what happened to a son he’s pretty sure is not alive anymore, if he’s reading all the context clues correctly. He’d long since settled on it being enough he said something to begin with and to only talk about it if Hank did. His point earlier hadn’t been to probe out all his secrets, it was simply to see if Hank was willing to let him in. Hank had done that.

 

Now he’s doing it again, apparently. He’s almost a little taken aback by it all, which he tries and fails to hide. Still, he doesn’t glance away, even when he wants to. This is something he knows he can’t shy away from if he seriously is going to sincerely offer to be a sounding board.

 

Even if it’s hard. He doesn’t even _know_ the story yet and it’s hard.

 

“How did your son die?” he asks, quietly.

 

He watches Hank, whose face is neutral but somber, like he’s forcing himself not to show emotion. A tint of pain seems to break through though, at Connor’s blunter than he meant it to be question. He half expects him to decide maybe he isn’t ready for this, but then he starts talking.

 

“I was bringing him home from a school thing. It was some fair thing for his science class. Fuck, he was excited to show his shit off, he was way more into school than I ever was. Smarter, too. Probably got that from his mother,” He pauses there, and Connor can see it – pride, even now. It doesn’t last, his expression tightening. “The weather was shit that night, heavy rain. Truck ended up losing traction and skidded right into us. The car was so demolished I had to fucking crawl out of the wreckage and get him out, too.”

 

A beat then. Connor can see a glassiness to his eyes right before he looks away.

 

“They tried to save him. He survived long enough to get to the hospital but died on the operating table,” he continues, quietly. “And me? I was out of the hospital within the week. How the fuck is that fair, right? Of the two of us, I’m still here? That’s what fucking gets me. Every time, that’s what gets me.”

 

For all the times he’s dealt with all sorts of people having all sorts of problems, Connor’s never dealt with anything close to this. It makes him feel a little like his heart is in a vice.

 

“Hank,” he murmurs, frowning. Even though Hank isn’t looking at him, he can see a small, sad smile curve up. His tone shifts to something far more self-deprecating.

 

“You know, I always think I’m better about this shit, that this year it’ll suck a little less, but I guess not. Never takes much, even now,” he sighs. Grief etches along his profile, unable to be contained any longer.

 

Connor does not think when he shifts closer. Does not think when he wraps his arms around him and drags him into a hug, awkward as the angle might be. It’s only when he feels Hank immediately stiffen that he wonders if he’s overstepping some boundary, but it’s too late now. He half expects him to pull away at that point with the reaction. Instead, gradually, he feels the tension lift and he sags against him, pressing his face into his shoulder.

 

They stay that way a little while. Connor waits for him to decide when he’s had enough, knowing full well he accepted it because he needed it. When he finally does, he sits back, scrubbing roughly at his face, as if he’s personally offended by his own emotions.

 

“Fuck,” he breathes out, his voice sounding a little on the side of shaky. As if sensing something amiss, Sumo ambles over to them, putting his big head in Hank’s lap. The sight of the dog squeezes a laugh from his owner, strained as it is. “What do you want?”

 

Connor manages a smile, watching Sumo’s huge tail wagging as Hank gives him the attention he’s looking for. “He hasn’t been out for a while. You want me to take him?”

 

Hank hesitates before asking, “You don’t mind?”

 

“We’re old friends now,” Connor reassures with a small grin, already getting up to grab his leash.

 

He thinks Hank needs a moment alone anyway. It’s not even entirely a lie – Sumo seems just as okay with him taking him out as he is with Hank, if earlier that morning said anything. He isn’t sure if that’s just the dog’s default or not, but he likes imagining he’s taken a liking to him. Either way, it takes no effort to corral him outside and take him around the area until it feels like an appropriately decent length of a walk.

 

When they return, it’s clear Hank took the time to collect himself. He’s calmer now, the anguish gone from his expression when he glances over at the two of them coming in. It doesn’t take long for Sumo to find a place to flop down once Connor lets him off his leash, panting.

 

“Did you break my dog?” Hank jokes as Connor rejoins him on the couch, cheeks still pale from the cold.

 

“He just needs to catch his breath,” he replies with a quiet chuckle. He shifts so he’s facing him a little more, studying his face. There’s no other way to pose the question, so he asks, simply, “You okay?”

 

Hank doesn’t immediately answer at first, as though he’s really giving the question thought. In the end, he just shrugs weakly.

 

“I was drinking by this time yesterday. Anything’s a fucking improvement,” he admits, looking embarrassed just mentioning it. He casts a sideways glance toward him then. “Thanks, by the way. For…well, fuck, you know. All of today, what you dealt with last night. You didn’t have to. Don’t think I don’t fucking get that.”

 

There were very few reasons Hank would have given him for him to actually stick around after he said what he needed to say. All of this had been one of them. It’s funny, but his overwhelming thought that something was very wrong all month ultimately had been right. He had doubted it, but it was right. With that knowledge, it’s hard not to think of his own situation once. When he had been at his worst, he had someone to help him back to his feet, even when he didn’t want to get up at all. It didn’t seem like Hank had that all.

 

It only felt right offering the same sort of help. That’s not the only reason, of course, he _knows_ it isn’t, but that one – that one is the easiest to unpack right now.

 

“I just hope it helped,” he responds honestly, not even bothering to hide the fact that yes, he is concerned. Of course he is.

 

“You’ve given me stuff to think about,” he admits, scratching the side of his neck.

 

Connor does not pry about what he means by that, but he hopes it means he’ll be looking into getting help. He can only do so much, after all, he knows how all of this works. He nods, wordlessly, to show he understood. Hank seems glad he’s not trying to pry.

 

“Oh and, uh. I’d offer you dinner, but,” he says and then trails off, motioning toward the now nearly empty fridge off to the side. They’d ended up throwing out most of what little he had because it’d been spoiled earlier. “There’s – there’s fucking take-out places, though, stuff that delivers, if you want.”

 

Yeah, it’s about that time, isn’t it? A glance outside confirms it’s dusk and it’ll only get darker soon. Having dinner here is a tempting offer, but he’s a little worried about Markus deciding to swing by to check in – he’d mentioned something earlier in a text, and Connor isn’t entirely sure if he’ll heed the reassurance that he’s fine, that whatever he’d been feeling had passed.

 

“I probably should get going soon,” he say, knowing he’s sounding as reluctant as he’s feeling.

 

There’s a flicker of disappointment Connor swears he spots. It’s gone too quickly to confirm it’s there. “Yeah, okay. You need a ride, then?”

 

Connor thinks about standing outside in the cold, waiting to get picked up after who knows how long waiting. This feels like an infinitely better idea. “If you don’t mind?”

 

“Fuck, you spent your entire day helping me clean, it’s the least I can do,” he says, standing to find and grab his keys.

 

It’s a pretty quiet ride over. Hank seems uncharacteristically lost in thought, and honestly, so is Connor. Things feel up in the air still, regardless of what ended up being a not terrible day. He realizes it’s his call to make, which is probably why Hank hadn’t brought it up either yet. Something about the idea of him giving him space is nice.

 

They pull up to his apartment building. Connor is aware at this point he needs to broach this topic. His hands twist a little in his lap as he exhales a breath.

 

“Is this the last time we’re seeing each other?” he asks, deciding to just – well, to just be blunt. Surprise spreads across Hank’s face, eyebrows shooting up.

 

“Uh, fuck. That’s more your decision than mine, Connor,” he replies, looking uncomfortable. “I’m the one who was a fucking asshole here.”

 

“Blank slate, then. You didn’t mess up, we’re even. What would be your answer?” he insists, because no, absolutely not, he’s not going to be the only one making the decision here. He needs to make sure Hank wants this.

 

Hank’s pause feels like it’s endless. He wishes he can hear the thoughts in his head. Then he’s glad he can’t, because he’s not sure he wants to know if he’s about to pull away again.

 

“I don’t want it to be. But I also don’t want to drag you down either,” he explains, frowning. Connor’s about to immediately protest that statement when he cuts him off. “I got it, you don’t feel that way, but I’m trying not to be an asshole here, okay? I’ve been thinking this entire ride that I need to do things to get my shit together and the last time I tried, it sucked. I know I need to, though, I do. Fuck, Fowler’s going to crow about being right, I can already hear it.”

 

The grumbling confuses him. “Uh, Fowler -?”

 

“Nevermind,” Hank waves off, continuing without hesitation. “My point is, I also know I really don’t have any right to ask you to hang around while that’s happening, but I hope you do. No more bullshit.”

 

He’s nervous, it’s written all over his face, and Connor does not need to be clued in how much this is beyond what he’s used to doing. It is not just an olive branch, it’s an overt request for support. One of which he doesn’t seem to think he deserves, one that he seems to doubt he’ll get.

 

“I wasn’t lying before, you know. I’m willing to try. I’m still willing to try,” he replies, as simple as that. Nothing has changed in that regard. “I’m here, though.”

 

Hank’s mouth twitches up into a small, sad smile. There still feels like a chasm between them, but it feels smaller now than it had been before. It’s steps. All of this is steps they’re taking.

 

“Talk to you later, then?” he prompts, like he’s making sure he’s understanding his answer right.

 

“Yeah,” Connor confirms, pushing open the car door. “I’ll text you later. And hey, buy some food while you’re out?”

 

“Cleaning and food shopping, christ,” he huffs, though he can tell Hank’s taking the suggestion to heart. It’s not like he isn’t going to pass by places on his way home anyway.

 

Connor grins, slipping out of the car. When he shuts the door, he lifts a hand to say goodbye, which Hank returns. He sticks around until he drives away, then fishes out the keys to his apartment as he jogs up. He’s already looking forward to getting out of these clothes – he hadn’t changed since yesterday and he’s sure he looks terrible – and just…try to sort through his thoughts. It’s not something he could’ve done at Hank’s house.

 

Apparently, things aren’t going to quite so simple. It’s very hard to miss the person leaning against the wall across from the door, who he recognizes,

 

“Simon?” he asks, surprised. The other man looks up from his phone and tilts his head, taking in his appearance immediately. There is no doubt in Connor’s mind that he is formulating a theory as to why he is absolutely _not_ sick and coming home in clothes that _definitely_ look like he’s been wearing them for two days. He doesn’t bring it up, however; he simply puts his phone away, pushing away from the wall.

 

“Ah, there you are. I was about to leave this on your doorstep,” Simon explains, a small smile lifting on his face, gesturing to the bag he’s holding. Connor’s eyes drift to where he’s motioning, and he realizes he’s carrying what appears to be a carton of what he presumes to be food. Food that Markus likely had Simon run over to his _sick_ friend, because that’s how Markus is. He should’ve known better than to assume he’d take his reassurances of being fine at face value. “May I come in?”

 

It’s impressive how much this feels like he’s in school again, caught skipping class. He clears his throat and musters up his own smile, which he likes to think masks the fact he’s dying inside. “Sure, of course.”

 

Of course, he says, as if he isn’t aware he’s inviting in someone to probably have another Conversation.

 

* * *

 

The thing about Simon is that, in the grand scheme of people who could’ve caught him wandering home in clothes he hasn’t changed in over twenty-four hours? He’s probably the best-case scenario. He and Josh are probably his most reasonable friends, anyway, not prone to prod too hard if it’s clear he isn’t comfortable. Apparently this is enough to make Simon a little more forward than usual.

 

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, in a careful tone. They’re sitting side-by-side at the bar attached to his small kitchen. Connor is eating the soup that had been brought over, because there’s no sense wasting what he brought over. The answer to the question is complicated, but at least the food is good. “Markus has been worried. So have I, honestly.”

 

Well, as it turns out, he apparently hasn’t been hiding what he’s been going through as well as he thought lately. That’s…unsurprising, he had no idea why he’d been thinking he actually had a good poker face.

 

“I’m fine,” he insists, and it’s the closest to the truth he’s been in a month. He hesitates then, looking at Simon. He does not look convinced. Apparently lying repeatedly about his status of being okay has caused some amount of doubt.

 

Or maybe it’s his appearance.

 

“The truth is,” Connor continues, because this is going to get out no matter what. He knows his friends. “I decided to get some closure yesterday.”

 

He doesn’t need to explain what he means by closure, Simon’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, reassuring him that no, he doesn’t need to explain what he means by closure. They all know what’s been weighing on him. “And?”

 

“It got complicated very quickly,” he laments, slumping a little over his bowl. “But we worked things out, I think?”

 

Simon’s clearly drawing conclusions with what Connor is giving him. He’s suddenly looking very concerned. “You didn’t -?”

 

The concern is enough for him to follow Simon’s trail of thought. They may have done a lot today, but it wasn’t that. He flushes a little anyway at the assumption he just skipped work to have sex with someone who disappeared on him for a month. “No. No, absolutely not. He drunk texted me, I went over because I was fed up, and ended up staying and making sure he didn’t have alcohol poisoning. There was no way I could get into work in time. I didn’t want Markus to worry.”

 

Because he obviously has been worrying. There are many, many things about this that he could understand Markus worrying about. He doesn’t wait to be prompted to continue.

 

“So after he wasn’t falling down drunk this morning, we finally had a talk,” he explains, because now he must be wondering why it took him so long to get home. “It was…productive.”

 

Simon still seems unsure how he feels about this. Like he’s preparing for the point where Connor slips and is actually _not_ okay. He honestly appreciates it, that clear desire to be there. This would’ve been incredibly helpful if things had gone massively wrong. Instead of probing exactly what the answers are, too, he asks instead, “Were they ones you wanted to hear?”

 

It’s a very _good_ question that Connor isn’t sure of the answer for. Had he even had expectations when he stepped up to his doorstep? “I don’t know what I really wanted when I showed up besides an apology. I got that and an explanation of what happened.”

 

Which he isn’t going to share. Hank’s been keeping it all close to his chest, it isn’t Connor’s place to put it out there, as much as he feels like it’d make what is probably going to be a couple of conversations he’s going to have to have easier with people noisier than the person he’s talking to now. Nothing like dropping a bomb like that to have people understand exactly why Connor didn’t just let him off the hook, but found it extremely easy to be sympathetic afterwards.

 

Simon simply sips the coffee Connor put together for him as he listens, looking thoughtful. He’s sure he’s weighing the options of what he wants to say. He’s never really been the kind of person to have snap judgments, which Connor can appreciate.

 

“Have you gotten back together with him?” he asks, clearly watching his face.

 

He probably sees the unsure expression that immediately springs from it. Connor makes no attempt to hide it, at least, though he isn’t sure he would’ve even been able to.

 

“Not exactly. I just – he said a lot of good things and I told him I’d be willing to try, so I’m just…” Connor trails off, trying to come up with the best way to put it.

 

“Waiting and seeing?” Simon guesses. He nods in response – that about sums it up, actually. “That’s a good idea. I know if he didn’t have a good reason, you wouldn’t be bothering. Just be careful, alright?”

 

It’s a suggestion he imagines he’ll be hearing a lot lately.

 

“It’s not like before,” he reassures, which makes Simon relax further just by him showing he was thinking about it. He’s aware of what this could become, his general inability not to let go of things. In the past, he’d willfully ignored the signs that he was expected to expect nothing and give everything.

 

It isn’t like that now. There’d been a noticeable dynamic shift, especially as the day wore on and things became more comfortable again. It’s surprising how easily they fell in sync with each other, but he doesn’t really let himself think about that farther than letting the thought exist for a moment before pushing it aside. He would go into this with nothing but hoping for the best.

 

It feels like the healthy way of doing things. He isn’t sure.

 

“Are you going to tell Markus?” Connor asks, because he’s well aware he’s within his right. Simon folds his arms against his chest.

 

“Are _you_ going to tell Markus?” he parrots back, eyebrow raising.

 

He already knows the answer to that. Honestly, the last time he kept secrets from his friend went terribly for him. It might end up being an uncomfortable conversation, but uncomfortable in the way things are when he knows Markus is probably going to tell him things he needs to hear.

 

“Yes, but probably not the part that this happened when I was supposed to be in work,” he responds, looking a little guilty at that. The other man chuckles, finishing off his coffee.

 

“In that case, I’ll tell him he was worrying too much, that you just were a little under the weather,” he decides. “A good middle ground, I think. But only if you’re honestly going to talk to him. He hasn’t known how to approach you about everything, but it’s been a pretty big deal.”

 

Well, now he just kind of feels like an asshole. Connor had been trying not to be a downer to everyone around him, but apparently he was causing an entirely different issue while he was doing it.

 

“I will, I promise,” he swears. It’s probably a long overdo one, at this point.

 

“You look better for the first time in a while, though, for what it’s worth,” he notes, just putting that out there. “I’m glad that whatever happened today was enough to at least accomplish that.”

 

This is no big surprise to him. Connor’s been feeling it himself since things have settled, like things are back to normal. Apparently his new normal involves Hank, and that feels awfully dangerous. It had been when this all started, and it definitely is now. Trust is still an issue. Everything is still an issue right now.

 

After Simon leaves, Connor finds himself mulling it over in his head. Separated from the situation, he’s aware that he’s just signed himself up to be put right back into the position he’d been in the last month, and really, is it worth it? Is he setting himself up for disappointment? How much can he actually help in this situation? Will he somehow make it worse?

 

As he’s spinning the thoughts over in his head, he hears his phone chime next to him. He picks it up and is both surprised and unsurprised to see who the message he just received is from.

 

**Hank**

_(9:35PM)_

You put a note up

 

Turns out, Hank finally spotted what he’d done earlier. He considers jokingly lying, but he knows the message had been meant to be serious. Treating it as such felt like the right way to go.

 

**Connor**

_(9:39PM)_

Yeah, thought I’d add to it.

Hope that’s okay?

 

**Hank**

_(9:41PM)_

You can write whatever

Just surprised it was there

 

**Connor**

_(9:43PM)_

Well, I meant what I wrote.

 

There is a pause. There is a very long pause, long enough that it’s hard for Connor not to notice it. He clearly has seen the message – it’s marked he’d read it – but there’s nothing. No indication he’s even typing and maybe doing that thing where he’s reconsidering typing something.

 

It makes him nervous. His thoughts earlier just fuel it. Just when that thought starts leading to even worse ones, Hank finally starts to respond. It doesn’t take long after he starts typing.

 

**Hank**

_(10:02PM)_

I’m glad you broke into my house

 

He laughs when he sees the message. Pretty loudly in fact, the sort of laugh that mostly exists out of relief instead of at something funny. The length of time it took to send that feels like a good hint for Connor to read between the lines, which he does.

 

There’s no way this isn’t Hank speak for being glad he’d showed up. He has no problem playing along with it. Almost makes it a goal to make him smile, even if he can’t see it right now.

 

**Connor**

_(10:04PM)_

Still not going to arrest me?

 

**Hank**

_(10:05PM)_

Still suspended

You got lucky

 

**Connor**

_(10:08PM)_

Good to hear my life of deviancy can continue.

 

**Hank**

_(10:10PM)_

Gonna jaywalk tomorrow

 

**Connor**

_(10:11PM)_

Maybe even twice.

 

It’s impossible not to smile. There’re parts of this that feel like nothing has changed, and he’s grateful for that. It’d be a lie to say he didn’t worry a little that it would’ve changed entirely, but just like before, they’re falling into some sort of natural, easy banter.

 

Like there hadn’t been any time lapse at all between them at all. It’s disarming when a part of him very much wants to tread carefully. It’s certainly hard to deny the significance of how easy it all feels, even after what happened.

 

They continue chatting all throughout his usual nighttime routine. It fills the silence of his apartment and, Connor thinks, it’s probably doing the same for Hank. Not long after they say their goodnights, he collapses into his own bed, exhaustion already pulling at his consciousness.

 

He sleeps well for once. Whether that’s because he’s that tired or because it feels a little like a weight’s been lifted off of him, he’s not sure, but he is grateful.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter song comes from ["I'd Be Lying" - Greg Laswell](http://nullrefer.com/?https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gtE0J1FEX9E).


	8. Nervous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarification.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are again, friends. Thank you, as always, for popping in to read. The feedback via kudos, comments, tweets, etc. are honest to goodness humbling, I am really glad to see people are digging things.
> 
> So here's another chapter, hopefully one you'll also enjoy, eh? As always, you can find me over in Twitter Jericho hell at [@dathankconlife](https://twitter.com/dathankconlife) if you want to say hello. Which you should!

Connor does not tell Markus.

 

He wholly is ready to do so the day after until he realizes he needs this conversation to go well. While he’s aware he’s not _beholden_ to his friend’s opinion, he also knows that wants the approval anyway. With how unsteady everything feels right now, he isn’t sure if he can make the case as to why this is a good idea by any stretch of the imagination _. Things are different now_ feels like a hollow promise when he can’t explain what’s changed and what happened.

 

That he’s also aware that if that’s all he has going into the conversation, all it’ll turn into is rehashing his past. It’s something he barely likes talking about on a good day, nevermind when it’s a charged back and forth. This isn’t the biggest reason he’s putting it off, of course. It's a simple, tiny blip of wanting to sidestep an enormous amount of discomfort, that’s all.

 

(He’s a bad liar, even to himself, funny enough.)

 

It’s a situation he doesn’t want Hank to be in the dark about, though. For the first day working, he’s honestly a little paranoid he might think it’s a good idea to visit, because that’s about the last way he’d want Markus – and everyone, for that matter – to find things out. It’s an awkward situation, one of which he isn’t sure how to deal with, because he feels like what he’s doing might send the wrong message to Hank about how he feels about their relationship.

 

Whatever that relationship might be.

 

That’s a whole other thing, isn’t it? It’s a relationship that currently has absolutely no definitions attached to it. They’re essentially _secret friends_ right now, even though it’s difficult to think of Hank as a _friend_ when Connor knows he’s harboring a not insignificant amount of feelings about him that is really only being held back by caution. Caution that he’s falling into the same patterns again, mostly, with the added stress of consistently reminding himself to make sure he’s thought out what he’s doing and saying until Hank gets back on his feet.

 

(He’s sure Hank would be absolutely scowling at Connor handling things involving him with kid gloves even a little bit, but he’s going to have to deal with it.)

 

So. Yes. To think he’d assumed, in his fury the other night, that things would finally be over if he showed up at his doorstep. It’s certainly in his _‘you should’ve known better than to ever think this would be simple’_ pile now. The one blessing in all this is his initial concerns of him showing up at work ends up being unfounded, and he decides to sidestep that conversation for now and hope for the best, because that's been working out _great_ for him. He _does_ want to bring up hanging out again though, hash things out, but a day passes, then another, then another, until it becomes nearly three weeks since they’d last seen each other and –

 

It’s not like they aren’t talking. They’re talking a lot, in fact, to the point it’s rare he doesn’t find some message from him when he glances at the phone. His days are peppered with interactions with him – sometimes mundane, sometimes not, but always – _always_ \- something he finds himself looking forward to. It's a fact like that seems significant, that things never slow between them despite having not seen each other in a while, that his lingering feelings have been showing no sign of lessening. That doesn't mean he doesn't want to see him, though, and there hits a point he finally feels like he needs to stop looking for he perfect and natural way to suggest…something, _any_ kind of outing, honestly.

 

That same night he's decided to finally bring it up is the same night Hank bites the bullet for him.

 

**Hank**

_(9:35PM)_

What time do you get off work

 

**Connor**

_(9:36PM)_

Tomorrow? I should be home by 8

 

**Hank**

_(9:37PM)_

You should come over

 

For as much as he wants this outcome that is presenting itself, the request makes his stomach twist. They’d mostly hung out at different bars and eating places the last time they did things together. It certainly makes sense why he’d choose his house now given he’s technically already spent a night there, but there’s _implications_ that exist. He turns over in his head whether he should  _assume_ things in the suggestion and whether or not asking for clarification would make this weird, because wouldn’t it? Do people in their up in the air kind of situation just ask if they should expect something to happen or should he just wait and see what happens naturally? Does he _want_ something to happen, for that matter? By the time he gets out of his own thoughts, he’s a little horrified to see how many minutes have passed, leaving his offer unanswered. Before he can rectify it, Hank’s typing again.

 

**Hank**

_(9:43PM)_

Nevermind

It’s fine if you don’t want to

 

Connor feels two things in rapid succession: an immediate anxiety over what he can see is a _major_ fuck up on his part, then _guilt_. It dawns on him all at once that maybe his lack of forwardness about spending time together has been wildly misread by Hank, that it’s him doing a softer version disappearing act on him. Talking politely still, not exactly _gone_ , but keeping his distance on purpose. If that’s the case, he’s all but just confirmed it by literally going silent on him at the first offer of seeing each other.

 

No more thinking. He immediately responds.

 

**Connor**

_(9:44PM)_

No, no, that sounds good.

 

_(9:45PM)_

I was just thinking about the logistics.

I should be there by 8:30? Is that okay?

 

It’s a stupid attempt at covering up for what he knows the misunderstanding he just caused because of his own hang-ups and anxiety. It’s the best he can do, best he can explain, because honestly, he’s also very aware his mind is jumping about ten steps ahead when it probably doesn’t need to.

 

**Hank**

_(9:48PM)_

You don’t have to

 

Well, there's what feels like undeniable proof he's gotten the wrong idea of what’s going on. Knowing full well the sort of spiral even _he’d_ go down in his position, he changes tactics. He decides to be direct, honest, at least to a point. He has a feeling there is no other way to go about this that doesn’t end with him getting the wrong idea about where Connor’s head is at.

 

**Connor**

_(9:50PM)_

I’ve been trying to figure out how to ask myself if you wanted to hang out.

 

_(9:51PM)_

You beat me to the punch.

Sorry, I overcomplicate things when I shouldn’t a lot.

 

_(9:53PM)_

I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m pretty bad at this.

 

**Hank**

_(9:57PM)_

You and me both

Show up whenever I don’t care

 

Connor exhales a breath he’d been holding, feeling like he’d said just enough to diffuse the situation. The conversation is left at that, too, because he decides he really doesn’t want to chance overcomplicating things by trying to suss out if this is just them hanging out or if it’s meant to be more. At the very least, his work outfit is just enough to work for literally any scenario he can think of.

 

(There are a lot of scenarios running through his head.)

 

All of them, at least, involve him sorting things out with Hank. He's pretty sure he's going to drive himself crazy otherwise. Even having to be sneaky about not going straight home feels wrong on multiple levels that night. He spends the entire day trying to act like nothing is going on, which of course means he ends up coming off jumpy enough that even Josh notices at one point. He manages to smooth that over somehow, but he’s never been so glad to be done and leaving. He thinks he even ducks out in as effectively a manner as he can manage.

 

This is, again, a huge overestimation of his ability to get around undetected.

 

Now, the plan had been to pick a spot to be picked up not in front of the shop, but a little way away. He doesn't take into account parking had been bad earlier, and it turns into a major mistake when he realizes he definitely didn't choose a spot far enough away. He’s finishing up scheduling a ride when he hears an all too familiar voice.

 

“Hey, Connor.”

 

This is about when he spots that 'not far enough' mistake. It’s too late, of course, North is walking over, a sway to her hips. She smiles in such a knowing way at him that he realizes she’s already caught on to something being strange about this entire scenario.

 

“Oh,” he says, dumbly, immediately realizing his other critical error of not coming up with an alternate reason why he’s standing here right now, just in case. “Hi, North.”

 

She tilts her head and looks him over appraisingly. It’s not unlike Hank’s expression when he realizes he’s on to something and it’s just as unnerving on her as it is on him. Maybe more so, in fact.

 

“Not going home?” she asks, as if the answer weren’t obvious. This is not his direction to go home, even if he were to try to play off pausing in his walk to mess with his phone.

 

“Just getting a ride home,” he replies, which makes no sense on multiple levels, chief of which?

 

“Wait, what? Why? You know you could’ve just asked me for a ride.”

 

Yes. Because of that. If he had just been going home, he would’ve had multiple rides available to him and he knows it.  North draws closer, the light he’d been standing under illuminating her face. The mounting suspicion is evident all over her expression, and he knows better than to hope she’ll just drop it. He’s not sure if _any_ of his friends would keep walking in her position, honestly. He considers asking for a ride right now, except he still needs to get to Hank’s place and he really doesn’t want to be late.

 

“It’s fine,” he replies, waving off the comment.

 

“Do you need a ride?” she persists, because _nope_ , not letting this go at all.

 

Connor fidgets a little before quietly admitting, “No. I’m not going home right now.”

 

There is no surprise on her face, but she clearly approves of him coming clean.

 

“It must be juicy if you’re sneaking around,” she muses, moving to stand next to him, as if she’s also waiting for the car that’ll be coming soon. “Something you don’t want Markus to know about, if you’re making it a point not to get picked up in front of the store.”

 

Connor doesn’t say anything. He can feel her watching him.

 

“Your secret will be safe with me,” she offers, innocently. He still does not answer, fumbling and failing to come up with anything that she’ll buy even for a second. Her eyes narrow at his lack of a reaction. “…Except you’re keeping it from me too, aren’t you?”

 

Connor can practically see the dots connecting in her mind. When they do, she stares at him, her smile dropping.

 

“No,” she exhales, looking at him in utter disbelief. “How long?”

 

This is not a conversation he wants to have on a street corner, waiting for a car to pick him up. But here he is, this is his life, and he’s not going to lie even if he could. “A month.”

 

"Wait, shit, I guessed right?" she asks, then proceeds to full on smack him on the arm. “You took him back after what he did to you? Are you crazy?”

 

Well, this is going wonderfully already. Still, he turns completely to face her, meeting her worried and annoyed gaze. He does his best not to waver. “There’s stuff you don’t know, alright? And we’ve been working through it. I was going to bring it up to everyone once everything gets settled.”

 

She gives him a look where it’s clear she does not entirely believe him. “God, he wrecked you for a while there, Con. We were all worried. I mean, I tried not to make a big deal of it –”

 

Connor interjects here. “I think I remember you coming up with a couple ways to string him up for it.”

 

She smiles mischievously. “Still on the table, by the way.”

 

Despite the awkwardness of this conversation, it is very hard not to huff out a laugh. “Yeah, I know. It’s not needed. Things have already been better. A lot better. I mean it.”

 

He does. Despite the fact they haven't seen each other in person lately, the communication between them has been so far and away different than before he disappeared on him for a while. It’s stopped feeling like he’s trying to scale a wall constantly. He’d ask for a two-way street and it feels like Hank’s been trying to do just that. He starts conversations constantly now. None of this is something he can point to and make people understand what he’s seeing without context, though, beyond the fact that as much as all of this has him anxious, it also has been making him happy.

 

He’s looking forward to seeing him tonight. There’s no amount of nerves – and oh, there’s _a lot_ of nerves - that can ruin that.

 

It feels like a sign of some sort. One that he’s taking the right steps. The thought settles in his head as it comes to him, solidifying in a satisfying way. There must be a shift in his expression as it happens, some softening to his features, that North picks up on. All at once, her bluster leaves her. She just studies him, frowning.

 

“Shit. You’re not actually bullshitting, are you?” she realizes.

 

“Not bullshitting at all,” he confirms, even though he does get concern. He hopes she understands he appreciates it. “Okay?”

 

North still does not look convinced, which Connor knows is something that is going to need to be dealt with at some point. She does, however, look _appeased_ , which he supposes is the most he can hope for without being able to offer up anything satisfying. At the very least, she’s not mad at him, because she chooses to ruffle his hair hard before stepping back, grinning at the look he immediately shoots her.

 

“God, I knew something was going on. You better figure it out quick, because wow, still real terrible at lying,” she warns, stuffing her hands into her coat pocket as she starts to walk away, adding over her shoulder, “Tell your boyfriend I said hello. Make it sound threatening, okay?”

 

Connor watches her saunter off, letting her warning sink in. She’s right, of course. They need to stop hanging in this limbo they’ve been in.

 

He just wishes the thought of the conversation didn’t make him anxious just thinking about it.

 

* * *

 

He ends up on Hank’s doorstep a little after he’d said he show up. Hank had texted him a little earlier to just come in when he got there. The open invitation to just come barging into his house gives him weird, interesting feelings he’s not quite sure if he wants to unpack. He chooses to shut his brain off about it and just do as he’s asked when he ends up on his front porch.

 

Hank is not the first to greet him, Sumo is. Even though he’d looked fully passed out when he first steps in, the dog is up and lumbering over the second he realizes that not only is someone at the door, but it’s someone he _knows_. Connor knows better already to ignore the animal, squatting down to give him a good rub behind his ears, his smile wide.

 

“Hello, Sumo,” he coos, not even remotely embarrassed by the display he is probably making Hank witness. He glances up and does indeed find Hank in the vicinity, but at the stove of all things. He cocks his head, curious. “Hey, Hank.”

 

“Oh, I’m glad you remembered I was here too,” he jokes, glancing over his shoulder to look at him.

 

Connor is struck immediately by the difference a few weeks makes. There’s an air of energy about him that seemed all but extinguished the last time he saw him. A quick glance around confirms the house is still clean. And, again, it can’t be repeated enough, _he’s at the stove_. He can smell and hear the food cooking. He stands after a moment or two more of babying the dog and stands up, looking amused.

 

“I know better than to ignore a dog,” he says, simply, as he tugs off his scarf and takes off his jacket. He drapes both neatly aside before heading over, already loosening the cuffs of his work shirt to be a little more comfortable. He doesn’t think much of sliding up behind him to peek over and see what he’s making. “Pasta?”

 

And meat sauce, it seems like. Simple enough to throw together, but the fact he’s cooking at all is _not_ lost on him. Hank startles a bit as he looks over at him, perhaps not expecting him to wander so close. Connor swears he’s taking him in, but it doesn’t last long enough for him to decide if his gaze flicking downward was purposeful or not. He does clear his throat as he turns back to his food. “I’m making dinner if you want some.”

 

Now, he is no _lieutenant_ , but he’s positive the amount of pasta currently being put together was never meant for one person. Hank’s casually brushing it off as no big deal, but he decides that it wouldn’t be terrible to gently call _bullshit_.

 

“That’s a lot for just you,” he muses, a smile lifting. And there, yes, he can see him flush immediately at the prodding, the older man’s cheeks looking noticeably ruddier.

 

“So I made a little more just in case. I know you eat after work, I wasn’t going to fucking let you starve here,” he counters gruffly with an eye roll, keeping his eye on the food. It’s no big surprise, but him openly admitting he’s purposely cooking for him causes an unexpected flutter in Connor’s stomach. He draws himself away before the proximity makes him do something stupid.

 

“It was a good call,” he confirms as he steps away, sitting at the table. “Because I’m definitely starving right now.”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbles, sounding embarrassed now too, and Connor is glad he is not seeing the widening of his smile everything happening in front of him. There are things he can say, legitimately truthful things about finding it nice he cared enough, but he’s pretty sure the fussing is going to drive Hank insane.

 

So he pets Sumo instead, because the dog sits next to him as if trying to physically glue himself to his side. He’s glad he’s at least gotten his approval, he imagines that’s a step no matter what is to become of them. A few minutes later, Hank plops a plate in front of him and sits down himself.

 

“Glad you decided to show up,” he offers, staring down at his food as he starts to pick at eating it.

 

“It’s like I said, I was trying to broach the topic myself,” he says, pausing to eat. It’s simple, but undeniably good. Connor is glad he hadn’t grabbed something before he came here. “Can I ask you something?”

 

Hank lifts his gaze to reach his.

 

“Why did you finally ask me instead?” he asks.

 

Hank’s expression shifts into something he can’t read. Connor hates how easily he can go blank-faced. “Do I need a reason?”

 

That’s…he does have a point. Not everyone has to be here with ulterior _we-should-talk_ motives. Sheepishly, he replies, “Not really. I was just wondering if anything prompted it.”

 

Hank gets…quiet at that. Connor’s nerves immediately start to fray, because it feels like it’s never a good sign when something like this happens. He does his best not to show it, but he’s sure it’s written all over his face. Eventually it feels like end of discussion, so he eats because at least eating is not staring at him, waiting for an answer he isn’t sure he’s going to get. Connor’s mid-bite when Hank finally starts talking again.

 

“Tomorrow’s going to be a pain in the ass,” he admits, finally, with a sigh. He pushes the food around on his plate idly as he talks. “And I haven’t seen you in a while, so.”

 

It takes a moment for Connor to connect the first half to the second part of what he said. When he does, when he realizes Hank is literally copping to him being here simply because he is going to be dealing with something stressful and him being here helps with that. He says the first, stupid thing that comes to mind.

 

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, wincing inwardly at how stupid and cliché that sounds. Hank is similarly unimpressed.

 

“No,” he responds instinctively, the word blunt and final. Except it’s not actually final, because then he seems to grimace at _himself_ instead, his expression mirroring the same sort of look Connor’s just made at his own blunder. If he didn’t know better to do it, he might have even laughed at the thought of the two of them stumbling through this. Hank sighs at length. “Fuck. Alright, look, there’s nothing really to talk about. Evaluation is tomorrow, and I don’t know how it’s going to turn out. I only just fucking started the terms of coming back.”

 

He surmises this is about his suspension. Just talking about it seems to make him tense up more than he had been before. Connor isn’t entirely sure how any of it works, so it feels wrong to give a blanket it’ll be fine statement. Maybe it won’t be?

 

It’s hard not to frown at the thought, especially when he sees the strides all around him to work on getting better. He supposes things like that aren’t going to be taken into consideration if he hadn’t been following instructions. Which, speaking of -

 

“What were you expected to do?” he asks, eyebrows knitting.

 

“Besides sit on my ass and think about how much I should feel bad for wanting to punch out a monster?” Hank asks, rolling his eyes. “Anger management bullshit. I…started seeing a shrink. Been two weeks now, twice a week...whatever. It’ll count. Fowler’s just gonna probably get on me for not doing it sooner.”

 

He mentions therapy casually, as if it isn't a big deal when it very much is. There’s a moment he considers commenting on it, but finds his mind drifting to how uncomfortable it had been when people had made a big deal about his own stint. There’s nothing quite like failing so badly at life that you get congratulated for choosing to get help, which is how he felt throughout the entire time he was seeing the person he was seeing. It’s a sentiment he never mentioned because people meant well, but he’ll spare Hank having to deal with the same thing he did.

 

Still. It’d be a lie not to say he’s happy to hear it. It means Hank’s gotten himself together enough to want to reach out for help. The entire process is not easy, not even a little bit.

 

“It has to count that you’re going,” Connor settles on gently arguing, seeing the rumination starting over how Bad things are probably going to go tomorrow. “What exactly is at stake here?”

 

The question focuses him on the facts instead of the what ifs…sort of. “A longer suspension. My luck, probably firing my ass.”

 

Connor doubts that heavily. Still, he offers, jokingly, “Well, we are hiring at the shop.”

 

The comment was meant to make him smile. Mission accomplished, apparently, because Hank lets out a loud, short, surprised laugh. “Fuck, could you imagine? Your friends fucking hate me.”

 

For as much as Connor had planned for the conversation about his friends, he never factored in the idea that Hank might not have been showing up specifically because he _knew_ how badly that would go. He must look surprised, because Hank smirks at him.

 

“What, you think I didn’t guess?” he asks, lifting a brow when he looks over. “I was an asshole, of course you told them. Do they even know you’re talking to me now?”

 

Connor rubs the side of his neck, not quite looking at him. “Two do. Accidentally. None of them know a lot, though, not yet. Hank, look, I –“

 

“Don’t. You don’t need to explain shit to me,” he interrupts, and he doesn’t look particularly hurt, but Connor worries anyway.

 

“No, I do. It’s not that I want this to be secret or to never be seen around you. I’m not ashamed,” Connor interjects, the words coming out in a rush. “I just know them and I’m trying to find the best way to approach this to make sure they like you.”

 

They had at least begrudgingly accepted him before. He needs to get it back there, needs especially Markus to understand he’s not being stupid about this.

 

“I can deal with it if they don’t,” Hank offers, like he thinks saying something like that would help. Unfortunately, that’s not the case at all.

 

“I wouldn’t be able to deal with it,” he counters with a bit more force than he means there to be. It’s critical to him that they see what he sees in him.

 

Which is a lot. He sees a lot. A lot of the things he saw before everything went down still applies, but there’s other things too. The Hank he knew the month before would not have invited him like this purely because he’s some form of _anxious_ , even if he isn’t realizing that’s the reason he wanted Connor here. He also wouldn’t have been open about any of what’s going on at all for Connor to realize he was anxious to begin with. Couple the night with the conversations they’ve been having the last near month and it’s clear he’s trying to be better, period, to the point Connor somehow finds himself in the position of floundering a little himself to keep up. To give as much as he’s getting, even as he’s starting very obviously struggle behind his own walls.

 

As if reading his mind, Hank decides to surprise him once again.

 

“Why?” he asks instead of just letting the subject drop, like he usually would. He’s quickly aware that Hank is watching him intently after posing the question, and he distantly realizes he must be looking for the same clarification he came here looking for himself. What they are, what they’re doing.

 

“Because,” Connor begins, and then falters, knowing the answer but finding it difficult to vocalize. There’s some part of him realizes how _deeply_ messed up it is that this feels harder to say not because Hank had disappeared on him, but because, sitting there right now, he feels more available than he has _ever_ been. It’s dawning on him all at once that this is something that he _could_ have, this could be an actual thing, and it terrifies him. It’s a fear he practically has to brute force his way past, because he knows what will happen if he lingers too hard on his thoughts. He lifts his gaze, steeling himself. “They’re important to me, but so are you. If you’re going to be around for the long run, which I hope you are, I can’t deal with everyone hating each other. I just need to figure out how to make that happen.”

 

Hank just stares at him. Connor is starting to hate how bad he is at reading him and what he’s thinking, because all he can do is prepare for a negative response he isn’t even sure is coming. Finally, after what feels like a long silence, he lets out a strained laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “Fuck, kid, you really do put a lot of shit on your shoulders you don’t have to, you know that?”

 

It's not the response he’s expecting at all. Connor gapes at him, unsure what to say.

 

Hank, seemingly sensing his confusion, sighs and clarifies, “You’re a smart guy. You should know no matter what you say, I’m going to need to take my knocks from them. I fucked up. I don’t need you making excuses for me. I’ve made people do that enough and I’m never going to get my shit together if I keep letting that happen.”

 

He says this as though it’s it’s the most obvious thing in the entire world that he doesn’t want Connor to be an intermediary. The idea of Hank being the one to deal with this problem had never even an option, the tendency to take it all on himself fed by the memories of his frankly _depressing_ number of apologies to others he had to make in his last relationship. Taking the hit felt so _normalized_ at this point that he hadn’t seen the glaring, obvious solution right in front of his face.

 

Yet there it as. Offered up to him without any prompting whatsoever.

 

Connor feels a lump in his throat form unbidden as he weakly nods in response. He swallows thickly after, embarrassed at how emotional he feels himself becoming. Hank’s worried about his job and future and here he is, falling apart at his kitchen table because he’s gobsmacked at him taking on some of this weight he's put on himself. It’s _pathetic_.

 

He must look bad off, because suddenly there’s a warm, firm hand on his shoulder. He looks up with a start and finds Hank looking at him with an expression that’s bordering on _concern_. He can’t even blame this on the fact he practically reads people for a living – he’s pretty sure his emotions are so transparent right now a kid could spot them. “Hey, Connor, I mean it, you know. I’m – fuck, I’m shit at all of this, but it’ll work out.”

 

He blinks, realizing he caught on he's upset but he’s definitely assuming incorrectly why that is. It’s easy to pull himself together in the face of needing to make sure Hank understands he's aware he's doing the best he can.

 

“It’s not that, not at all. I know you mean it,” he manages out, once he knows his voice won’t betray him. “Sorry, I was just suddenly struck by how glad I am to see how much better you’re doing in general.”

 

It’s not a lie. It’s a _deflection_ , but it’s not a lie, and he seems to take him for face value. Hank hesitates, looking a little like he isn’t quite sure how to respond to it.

 

“Thought I’d give not being a fuck up a try for once,” he sighs with a shrug. Hearing him being obviously down on his own progress just helps Connor further as his attention is now fully on Hank. Boy, it’s easier to focus on him than himself.

 

“You’re not a fuck up,” he insists, firmly.

 

Hank scrunches up his face at that, clearly not believing it. That won’t do at all.

 

“You’re _not_. You went through a lot and you’re still here. That counts for something,” he persists, not letting this particular issue just go. “Consider yourself with someone wholly ready to remind you of that any time you need to hear it.”

 

He knows it’s corny, but it’s a sentiment he wants out there anyway. Hank is clearly trying not to react positively to it, but he can see a shift in his expression that he at least appreciates it. “You’re going to be a pain in the ass, aren’t you?”

 

“It’s all part of the package,” he grins.

 

Hank rolls his eyes, but there’s no hiding the small smile that follows it. He’s clearly very done with the attention though, motioning to the TV as he suggests, “Sure, alright, if you say so. You want to watch a movie or do I need to keep sitting here getting a fucking pep talk?”

 

Connor snorts, looking amused himself, and he lets the subject drop for now. Honestly, it sounds exactly like the sort of thing he could use himself right now, something to unwind to.

 

They end up together on the couch not long after. Sumo is fast asleep at their feet. Connor toes his shoes off to pull his feet up onto the couch as he gets comfortable, leaning slightly against Hank’s side wordlessly. Neither comment on this, of course, and Hank puts some random thing on that they decide looks decent. It is a middle-of-the-road quality cop movie at best, and they spend the first half commenting on a lot of what they were seeing.

 

(The decent amount of times Hank mentions how bad it is it ends up being hilarious to Connor after a while, especially when he looks over and he’s just scowling openly at some of the more egregious issues.)

 

The second half is around when Connor starts getting tired. It is not a sudden thing, but something more gradual, something that at any point he could force himself to sit up and go _hey, I’m falling asleep, I probably should get going_. He ignores any and all attempt his brain is making to get him up and Hank never tries to disturb him either, even though he’s surely leaning further and further into his side as exhaustion creeps in. It’s really an inevitability at that point that he drifts off completely, the sounds of a firefight the last thing he hears.

 

Connor has no sense of anything beyond gentle nudging and the repeating of his name when he’s roused. He fights waking up, burying his face into the warmth against him. The nudging becomes a little more insistent until he has no choice but to give in, slowly opening his eyes and glancing around blearily. Confusion floods him until he remembers where he is. The first thing he notices is the TV is off. The second is he nestled in against Hank even further than he’d been earlier.

 

It’s something that might’ve sent him into a panic once, but in his hazy, half-asleep stupor, none of the fear can really surface and take hold. Instead, he groans and turns his head to bury his face against his side, smiling to himself when he both feels and hears him laugh at the stubbornness on display.

 

“Fuck, kid, you got work tomorrow, don’t you?” he reminds, and there is this – sleepy, amused affection seeping from his tone that makes him feel warm. It makes him feel good.

 

It’s not that Connor isn’t aware he is right, though, as loathed he is to be disturbed right now. He also knows Hank has a long day himself, and that more than anything else finally makes him sit up, though not without a few sounds of discontent as he goes. After adjusting his glasses on his face and stretching his arms wide over his head until he feels his back crack in an utterly satisfying way. He finds Hank is watching him when he looks over.

 

“Did the movie ever get better?” he asks, still sounding groggy.

 

“From what I heard over your snoring?” he jokes, a smirk lifting when Connor undoubtedly looks as embarrassed as he immediately feels. “Not really. You didn’t miss much.”

 

“I don’t snore,” he huffs, even though he isn’t entirely sure that’s true. It’s not like he’s slept in the general vicinity of someone in a while. The few times he ended up at Markus’s, there was a guest bedroom for him.

 

“You keep telling yourself that,” Hank snorts, standing and stretching himself. Connor finds it very hard to be upset when he gets to get an eyeful of him from behind. It’s an opportunity he absolutely takes with him not watching, though he’s careful not to have his eyes drifting by the time he turns back to look at him. “You need me to drive you home?”

 

Connor pulls out his phone at the question, squinting at the time. Fifteen past one in the morning. The idea of making Hank go out into the cold just to get him home when he should be sleeping himself feels wrong. He shakes his head, already switching instead to set up a ride to pick him up.

 

“I got it,” he reassures, not giving Hank enough time to react to him not wanting to inconvenience him. He scowls a little anyway when he notices what he’s doing, but what’s done is done. He sits down next to him again, clearly intent on at least keeping him company until the car rolls up.

 

“Fuck me,” he groans out loud, rubbing at his face and sounding tired. Some vague bit of regret creeps in as Connor remembers why he’d been invited here to begin with. So much for keeping him company the night before a stressful day.

 

“Hey, uh. By the way? Sorry for falling asleep, I know you wanted company,” he apologizes, looking more than a little sheepish. “I must’ve been more tired than I thought.”

 

There’s more to it than that, of course – he’s more than aware he _never_ would’ve been able to nod off without feeling of being safe and comfortable in this place and with him - but this is the simplest thing to say. He still feels bad, like he’d messed up the night, but Hank is just giving him this look like he’s an idiot.

 

“What do you call what you were just doing?” he poses, lifting a brow.

 

“Drooling on your shirt?”

 

Hank scoffs, smirking. “Yeah, alright, I’ll give you that. But you came over. That’s all I wanted.”

 

There is a pause as Connor studies him. “Did you _really_ think I wasn’t going to say yes?”

 

It’s Hank’s turn to look uncomfortable and for all the times he’s been able to completely be without any expression, he doesn’t seem to be able to manage it now, mouth twitched downward into a small frown. “..I don't know, I wasn’t sure. But fuck it, you did, that’s all that matters.”

 

“Yeah, you’re right,” he concedes, not wanting to push it right now. His ride is almost here and it’s late and he knows they have time to have conversations like this later. The thought of leaving, though – he had some thought by the end of the night he might not want to go, but it's a stronger desire than he even expected.He practically needs to force himself to get up and go over to collect his things when he feels himself getting a little too relaxed sitting next to Hank again.

 

He sighs at length as he grabs his coat, ignoring his scarf falling to the ground next to him in lieu of grabbing it once he’s got what he’s holding on. Hank joins him not long after, peering out the window for any sign of the car that's supposed to be arriving.

 

“Anyone yet?” Connor asks.

 

“Not that I can see,” he answers, turning away and bending down to retrieve the scarf. Connor is about to hold out his hand to take it when Hank steps closer instead, choosing to loop it around the back of his neck instead. He then waits for him to let go of the ends of the soft blue fabric, but he doesn’t do that either, lingering close enough they’re sharing body heat again.

 

Connor feels his pulse jump as his body anticipates something far quicker than his brain does.

 

His eyes flick up to shoot Hank a curious gaze to find the older man already staring back. Just that causes a prickling reaction of heat on the back of his neck and he’s silently grateful for the poor lighting his house, worrying he's blushing in far more visible places too. Unconsciously, he wets his lips with his tongue and sees Hank’s sharp blue eyes shift to watch.

 

_Oh_. His brain catches up all at once to what's happening.

 

The phone buzzes in his pocket, signaling his driver is approaching. He ignores it completely, mostly because Hank decides to start gently tugging him forward by the scarf he’s still holding and boy, does that action eat up all his attention _immediately_. There’s not a moment Connor considers fighting against it, willingly letting himself be guided to take that last half-step forward to close the remaining space between them. He tilts his chin up instinctively as Hank’s tips downward and they meet halfway, his mouth finding the older man’s with ease, moving together with him in such a natural way that it’s almost hard to believe it’s really been nearly two months since they last did this.

 

Connor braces for what he is used to with Hank – hard and insistent and more than a little overwhelming – but it never comes. Instead, it’s tentative at first, perhaps to gauge Connor’s reaction. When he clearly leans into it, the tentativeness is replaced by something firmer but equally gentle. He vaguely feels him release his scarf, the weight of one of his hands curling around his slimmer waist instead. He draws him even closer with it, letting the hand smooth against his lower back while his other wraps around and up to settle on his shoulder.

 

Connor, completely still in his grip up until then, is spurred on by the sensation of being surrounded by him. He unconsciously presses his smaller body flush against Hank’s larger one, arms snaking around his neck, one hand splaying out between his shoulder blades while the other tangles in the hair on the back of his head, deepening the kiss.

 

Vaguely, he hears the horn honk once - they’ll have an angry driver _and_ angry neighbors on them soon enough at this point. He knows he needs to go. Still, _still_ , it’s so hard to pull away, because he’s struck by the realization he can’t remember the last time anyone has kissed him like _this_ before, all times before with Hank included. He’s in an utter daze by the time he finds it in him to separate himself from the embrace. Even when he does, he lets one hand slide from behind his neck, and has it slide down and come to a stop on his chest, palm flat against his bicep. He does not pull away completely – he doesn’t want to. Not yet.

 

“I need to go,” Connor says, breathless and apologetic. He hears the phone buzz again, another message, and probably his last one before the driver is going to decide to leave.

 

“I can take you home,” Hank repeats his offer, and there’s something in his expression, something dark and wanting, that makes Connor’s mouth go dry. It is tempting, too tempting, but responsibility keeps him as grounded as he possibly can be in this scenario right now.

 

“You have your evaluation later on today and you shouldn’t go in tired,” he reminds, unable to hide his smile when he gets a somewhat disgruntled look. Hoping to soothe him, he lifts his hand to cup his cheek, fingers running through the bristles of his beard. “Hey, I’m not going anywhere, I promise.”

 

He needs him to agree to this soon because _wow_ is his own willpower rapidly draining to critical levels and he isn’t entirely sure he can move away himself. Luckily, some part of Hank must know he’s right about not going into his thing exhausted, because he sighs at length after a moment and steps away, motioning to the door.

 

“Out before I change my mind,” he grumbles, though there is a small uptick of a smile on his face that mirrors the one Connor shoots him as he passes him to catch the ride that he’s sure was just about to give up on him.

 

He almost wishes they had.

 

* * *

 

“You’re mad.”

 

Connor knows Markus. He knows Markus more than probably anyone, and he certainly knows how to read his body language. He’s pacing back and forth, back and forth, practically wearing a hole into his very nice apartment carpet and that’s not exactly a _great_ sign. The tension in his frame isn’t either, rare as it is that he even allows himself to show that. The statement makes him stop and look at him. He doesn’t answer at first and Connor sees the struggle in his face to decide how he wants to respond.

 

“Wouldn’t you be?” he poses instead of answering, and oh, that’s actually worse than him being mad, because Connor pauses long enough to think about it and –

 

Yeah. He probably would be. It’s hard to remain indignant ( _he didn’t have to tell him at all, he didn’t_ ) when he can conjure guilt so utterly effectively. He exhales a slow breath, looking away.

 

“I wasn’t trying to –“ he began, but Markus shoots him a look and he knows what he’s about to say is bullshit and is going to be taken as such. Connor lifts his hands in a gesture of giving up. “Okay, I was hiding it, but I just needed to figure things out.”

 

Which he did. He very much did. No actual terms had been thrown out last night, but their parting had given him all the context he’d needed to know this is the point he starts mentioning it to his friends. He resolved to tell Markus immediately and here he is, doing just that, not putting it off. That feels like it should count for something but he’s also aware pointing that out is likely to not go over well. He watches his friend come to a stop and turn to stare at him, mouth forming a thin line.

 

“Cut the crap. You didn't say anything because you know why this is messed up. You’re walking right back into what you went through before and I don’t want to see you back where you started,” he argues, gesturing as he speaks.

 

“Don’t you think that’s been on my mind constantly? I know, Markus,” he counters, getting defensive immediately. He pauses and collect himself, not wanting to yell. This doesn’t need to become a shouting match. “People make mistakes. He’s owned up to it. Hell, I told him – I told him how important it was for you all to try to get along and he was interested in helping make that happen. Does that sound like how it was before?”

 

Markus remains tight lipped. Connor knows he could simply just let this all fall to the wayside, accept that there’s going to be non-acceptance, and live his life. He wants Markus’s input though, he does, because if he digs deep, he knows he will never wholly trust himself. Not with this, even if he feels so sure of it all. He’ll be brutally honest and that’s what Connor needs.

 

“I’m just asking you to give him a chance,” he finishes, slumping a little. He doesn’t want to fight. He doesn’t want to argue. “Specifically because I _want_ your opinion. I wouldn’t be asking otherwise.”

 

It seems to finally get through to him. He sighs and folds his arms against his chest, thinking. A sudden dawning seems to come to his face a few moments later. “…Thanksgiving’s coming up in a few days.”

 

Connor stiffens at the suggestion. “Um.”

 

Markus clearly takes note of Connor’s discomfort and he swears it only pushes him to suggest the idea harder. “I can’t think of a better time if that’s what he _really_ wants.”

 

It’s – an idea. When he came here to pose this, he had only meant for Hank to have to deal with Markus and maybe Simon, though. Thanksgiving – that’ll be their entire group. At once. It feels more than a little overwhelming to put on someone.

 

“I have no idea if he has plans,” Connor points out, even though Hank does not strike him as someone who is particularly connected with family to do anything for the holiday.

 

“You could ask,” Markus replies, continuing to act like he doesn’t recognize the enormity of the situation he’s suggesting Connor sign him up for.

 

“I could ask,” he parrots in agreement, sounding as unsure as he feels.

 

“Unless you think that’d be a bad idea,” he prods, absolutely showing his cards that he knows it’s going to be a lot. He wholly suspects this will be a challenge that he probably doubts Hank will ever consider rising to. Surprisingly, the mere thought is what steels Connor in deciding to go along with this, even if he still actually has no idea how this is going to pan out.

 

He’s sure Hank will say yes if he can, right? Right.

 

“I’ll ask,” he repeats, flatly.

 

Markus smile pleasantly at him. “ _Great_. Make sure you let me know what he’s bringing if he says yes.”

 

Connor does not ask after he leaves the apartment. He’d probably put the conversation off entirely until tomorrow, in fact, except he’d gotten a text earlier when he had been talking to Markus he hadn’t looked at but has a feeling he knows who it’s from. Connor isn’t sure when Hank’s evaluation was today, but he had texted him that morning asking him to tell him how it went.

 

Considering the non-zero probability it could’ve went terrible, he knows he needs to look at the message. He knows he will likely need to reply. He knows when they are talking tonight, there will be no excuse not to bring what just transpired up, especially because if there’s anything worse than inviting someone to an awkward holiday dinner, it’s springing it on them and giving them no time to prepare for it. He knows all of this and he still waits until he is entirely home to even look at his phone.

 

**Hank**

_(8:05PM)_

You busy?

 

He considers replying via text but realizes no part of the conversation they need to have tonight – not about the idea, not about what happened with the evaluation – really is appropriate to play out through texts. He crashes on his couch when he settles on that conclusion, and, after a few minutes working himself up to it, he calls him. It rings a few times, enough that he doesn’t think Hank is going to pick up. In what feels like just before the call would hit voice mail, he finally answers.

 

“Yeah, what?” the voice on the line asks, gruffly. He sounds a little winded, like he’d rushed over to pick it up. Connor’s mouth curves into a small smile, he can't help it.

 

“Hello to you too,” he responds. There is a long beat and Connor wonders if he’d even checked the phone before he picked it up.

 

“Fuck, Connor. Hey,” he says, tone losing its edge immediately. Just feels like his theory is confirmed right then. “Sorry, I was outside letting Sumo take a piss. Something wrong?”

 

He puts him on speaker and lets the phone rest on his stomach, staring up at the ceiling. Of course he thinks something is up, he can count only a handful of times in the last few weeks they didn’t just text back and forth. Instead of jumping into his own stuff, he focuses on what’s important first.  “How’d things go today?”

 

He hears the pulling out of a chair. Connor assumes he’s planting himself at his table. “One more month suspension, paid. I got lucky. You were right, he chewed me out for dragging my feet, but me doing anything was enough. Just gotta keep my nose clean.”

 

He feels genuine relief hit him. There’s no question if things had gone horribly, it would’ve been bad. For all the grousing he does about his superior, he seems like he’s looking out for Hank, which he’s glad to hear. “A whole month? Think you can handle behaving that long?”

 

Hank audibly snorts. “I know, asking for a fucking lot from me. Might need you to keep me in check.”

 

Connor feels himself smiling at that. There’s an unspoken nod that he wants him to be around that long that he certainly appreciates. “I’ll do my best.”

 

“I’ll try to make it easy on you.”

 

Real comforting. Connor just smirks. “That’s very kind of you, Hank.”

 

More sounds of movement. There’s the telltale noise of Sumo’s nails clacking against the floor before it’s silent again. He can imagine Hank scratching the animal behind the ears. “How’d your day go? Kill anyone?”

 

“Three major spills in a day was a lot, but I survived,” he responds. This would be a perfect place to bring up what Markus and he talked about, his brain helpfully reminds. He ignores it.

 

“You survived, but you’re not mentioning what happened to the spillers.”

 

“Some secrets need to stay a secret,” he responds, affecting a solemn tone. The laugh that nets him is warm.

 

“Well, I’m still suspended, it’s not my problem.”

 

This is where he should bring things up, his brain persists. This is where, _right here_ , and he just needs to open his mouth and say it. Some part of him realizes he should’ve maybe rehearsed this before calling him. The other part of him knows it wouldn’t have done much.

 

“Connor?”

 

He realizes he must’ve gone silent. He’s quick to fix that.

 

“Yeah, I’m here,” he replies. In a manner of speaking. He grabs his phone and takes it off speaker, putting it next to his ear as he sits up. “…So, hey, I was wondering something.”

 

There is a pause. “Yeah?”

 

All he can hear in his head is a single chant: _just ask_. “Do you have plans for Thanksgiving?”

 

There is a longer pause. The sort of pause he wonders if he’s hit a sore spot that he hadn’t meant to hit. Hank speaks again before he can worry too much. “No, it’s usually me and Sumo. Why?”

 

Why indeed. He purses his lips briefly. Yeah, he can't think of a single way to make this sound less overwhelming. “I told Markus. About what’s been going on between us. And uh, so none of us really have family around here and we usually throw something together. He said I should invite you over.”

 

More silence from the other end of the line. He wishes he could see Hank’s reaction, gauge how bad an idea this is. “You told him?”

 

Right. That’s something he should slow down and explain too, huh? “I told you, it was never my intention to keep what we’re doing to myself. I won’t lie, it’s probably going to be awkward after what happened, and I understand if you want to skip out on it. Everyone brings their significant other though, so…I’m asking you.”

 

His significant other. It’s only after he says it that he realizes he just put a label on them he hadn’t made sure they were on the same page about, so he guesses that’s out there too. With that realization comes an anxious tightness that only feels more oppressive as the seconds tick by with no response.

 

The urge to try to salvage this is too strong to keep him quiet. “You know what, this is dumb, you probably don’t want to hang out with a bunch of strangers. Just forget it, it’s fine, I’ll just -”

 

“Am I going to get to talk at any point here?” he interrupts, dryly. Connor immediately goes silent, surprised at how…calm he sounds. Hank seems to give him another second to make sure he’s really done before continuing, “Thank you. Before you started babbling, I was going to say I’ll go. Fuck, I can’t promise I’ll be a good guest, but if you actually want me to come –“

 

“I do.”

 

“- Then I will. Just send me the details and I’ll try not to fucking embarrass both of us.” A beat. “Significant other, huh?”

 

There’d been some small amount of hope that maybe he’d just let it slide. He doesn’t, of course, Connor should’ve known better. The only good thing right now is the fact he can’t see him, because he very much doubts he’s hiding his worry well. At all.

 

“Um,” Connor exhales. “Did I say that?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Why did he call? Why did he call when he knows he literally has no filter in his head? And he chose this, _he chose this_ when the option of texting is always there had he just gone his normal route. Had he texted, he could’ve endlessly edited until he didn’t say what he just said. It’s so much simpler to not put his foot in his mouth there.

 

“Is that –“ he begins, pauses. Remembers how badly even suggesting attempting to date had gone, once upon a time, which is extremely unhelpful in this situation. It all felt different between them lately, but was it? “Okay? Because you can come as my friend, too. No one should be alone on a holiday.”

 

This is something he even truly means, as much as he’s also sure he’ll shatter a little if that’s what Hank wants. He’s not sure if he can take a two-for-two shut out in terms of wildly misreading him and how he’s feeling towards him.

 

“Fuck, I should be asking you that shit. Are _you_ sure?”

 

He isn’t expecting it to be turned on him. He isn’t expecting Hank to react with _disbelief_ either and he has a bad feeling as to why he’s asking.

 

“Is there a reason I shouldn’t be?” he inquires.

 

Hank’s laugh is rough, and when he speaks again, his tone is self-deprecating. “Do you have all night?”

 

There it is. Connor frowns, shifting the phone to his other ear as he paces back and forth across his living room.

 

“Let me narrow it down for you to things that actually matter, then. Are you serious about this? Because that’s literally all I need to know,” he clarifies, refusing to let him start talking badly about himself. Connor knows how it is to feel broken. They can work on all of that, but he just needs to see the foundations are there.

 

There’s a loud, slow exhale on the other end of the line. Finally: “Yeah, of course I am.”

 

He feels lighter just hearing him say it. “Then I’m sure. Okay?”

 

The pause isn’t as pronounced this time, his voice noticeably steadier. “Okay. Yeah, of course I’m fine with it. I’d be a fucking idiot not to be.”

 

There’s a compliment weaved in there somewhere. Connor smiles. “Good, I’ll send you the info you need then. Uh, do you mind putting together a dish? It’s sort of…a pot luck thing.”

 

There's one of those nice, long pauses again. “…You want me to make food for your friends.”

 

“At least it doesn’t have to be anything fancy?”

 

Hank audibly groans. Connor valiantly fights off the need to laugh. He manages to keep his composure, but it's a close call.

 

“Hey, it’ll be fine,” he reassures almost out of reflex, though it’s not an empty promise, surprisingly.

 

It’ll be fine, it’ll be alright. He thinks he might even be starting to believe that all himself, even though thought that alone feels a little dangerous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from ["Nervous" by X Ambassadors](https://youtu.be/Oal-hal95QQ)


	9. House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanksgiving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (taps mic) This thing on?
> 
> Heeeey guys, how's it going? How's things? Good? Good.
> 
> Sorry for the wait on this one. I wish I could say this won't happen again, but in an ironic twist, my own mental health decided to shit all over itself and I'm only really getting back into the swing of things. So worry not, this story is continuing, just at a slower pace as I not only continue to get things in order as well as write a couple of side one shots I promised.
> 
> Thank you, all of you, for your kind words of encouragement, both here and over on twitter (say hello - I'm [gottageekout](https://twitter.com/gottageekout) there too). Things are much better than before, so hey, that's a plus, eh?

It takes about a day for it to sink in how monumentally not good an idea he just signed Hank up for.

 

Connor loves his friends, he really does. He loves they care, too, but he doesn’t love the idea that quite a few of them feel coiled to strike. They’re angry on his behalf at best and protective at worst, in Markus’s case, and he’s not sure if any attempt to temper that is going to be successful. They don’t trust him, and it’ll be up to Hank to change that, and –

 

It’s a lot. It’s going to be a lot. The fact Hank barely hesitated to sign himself up for this says a lot about _him_ , but he hopes trying to live up to Connor’s desire for everyone to get along won’t backfire. He knows Hank will try his best, but there’s a lot of factors involved. There’s no adequate way to prepare, he has no idea what they’ll be going into. What’s worse, fussing over it feels like a great way to make Hank even more nervous than he already is.

 

Because he is. He’s trying to hide It, but he is.

 

“I can make two dishes,” Connor offers. They’re on the phone again the night after the invitation. It seems like it’s dawning on Hank too what a mess he’s agreed to be part of, because the entire conversation is punctuated by an audible tension in his tone.

 

“Like they’re not going to recognize the shit you make,” he huffs, clearly not good with that idea. “No, I’ll make something, just –“

 

He trails off. Connor frowns, guilt thrumming through him. He knows he’s agonizing over this because he wants it to go well not for his own sake, but for Connor’s. It’s starting to feel imperative that he understands that even what he’s doing alone is enough effort for him.

 

“Make an easy dessert, then, if you don’t want me to do it and you don’t want to buy something,” he suggests, hoping maybe that’ll be less overwhelming. “I'm serious, you don’t need to go over the top. I really did mean it doesn’t need to be fancy. The fact you’re showing up alone is a big deal for me. I know this isn’t easy.”

 

For a lot of reasons, he imagines. He wonders when the last time he’d celebrated any sort of holiday. Has he bothered since his son died? Is this mess really going to be his first time trying again? That thought only successfully makes him feel worse. It’s hard to resist the urge to clue people in exactly why October had been bad, in hopes of practically ensuring things would go at least passably. It isn’t his place, though, he knows it isn’t.

 

Hell, honestly? He’s actually pretty sure the only thing worse for Hank than having to deal with a hostile party is going to one where everyone is _pitying_ him. He knows him well enough at this point how bad it'd be to put him in that position. So here he is, trying to find the best way to walk this tightrope with him that he’s rapidly starting to think isn’t worth walking on.

 

Especially when Hank doesn’t answer with much by way of what he’s thinking right now. Unable to take it, he decides to offer something he nearly automatically knows he shouldn’t be even suggesting, had he given himself even a couple seconds to think about it.

 

“We can do our own thing, you know. Me and you,” he suggests, quietly. Lo and behold, that’s all he needs to say to get an immediate, forceful response.

 

“For fuck’s sake. Do you actually not want to do this shit?” he asks. Connor winces inwardly the second he realizes how he’s coming off. He should believe in Hank more, especially when he’s doubting himself, and instead he’s coming off like a jerk.

 

“I…no, that’s not it at all,” he insists. That’s the last thing he wants him to think, yet here he is, fussing to the point that that’s happening. “The disappearing thing just has them on high alert and I don’t want any of it to ruin your holiday.”

 

He can hear him audibly sigh after another stretch of silence. “…Fuck, kid, I was alone and shitfaced last Thanksgiving. Pretty sure even an interrogation is going to be a step up for me.”

 

It’s not that the admittance is a surprise, but Connor feels his chest ache a little hearing him talk about it anyway. As much as he’s sure whatever happens _would_ be better than before, it just makes him wish this was a more normal situation even more than before. But it isn’t, and he stops dwelling, because it’s not productive.

 

“Alright. Look. I’ll tell Markus you’re making cookies and I’ll come over and help that morning. Do you have a mixer?” he inquires, honestly not remembering seeing all too many cooking supplies when they were cleaning up.

 

There is a comically long pause. “Uh, I don’t…know? I’d have to look around. It’s…fuck, it’s been a while.”

 

To say Connor is unsurprised at the answer is an understatement. It’s fine, there’s a reason why he’s suggesting them. “Don’t worry about it, I have a handheld one I can bring. I’ll email you the ingredients, just pick them up?”

 

“You uh, you sure that’s not going to be a pain in the ass for you?”

 

“I’m making the mashed potatoes this year. I can do that wherever,” he reassures. It’s crazy to think Hank would even consider it a hardship for him to spend more time with him, but hey, he’s happy to remind him. “Plus, I don’t know when the next time will be that I get to watch you make cookies. Do I get to take a video of this?”

 

“I will kick you out of my house, Connor, I swear to fucking god.”

 

A laugh bubbles out of him, and he hears Hank suppress one of his own. For the first time since they got on the phone, it feels like things are approaching normal.

 

He’ll take it.

 

* * *

 

**North**

_(08:45AM)_

So I hear ur boyfriend’s coming today

 

_(08:46AM)_

Guy’s got balls, I’ll give him that much

 

Connor is finishing up putting together a bag of the things he needs to bring to Hank’s when he spots the text from North. He considers ignoring it for now, but hey, she just opened a perfectly good opportunity to attempt to make a case for her to not threaten Hank’s life. He’s not entirely sure if that’s an over exaggeration to imagine her doing that, but it certainly feels awfully _plausible_.

 

So he stops packing things and leans against his counter, tapping a response.

 

**Connor**

_(08:48AM)_

Markus tell you?

 

**North**

_(08:50AM)_

Yeah

Gonna be interesting

;)

 

**Connor**

_(08:51AM)_

Any chance I can convince you to take it easy on him?

 

**North**

_(08:52AM)_

I’m hurt u know

If he doesnt give me a reason to be an asshole I wont

 

**Connor**

_(08:53AM)_

Really?

 

**North**

_(08:54AM)_

Now I might fuck with him a little

 

_(08:55AM)_

But mostly cause he deserves it

:)

 

**Connor**

_(08:55AM)_

No sharp objects, please.

 

**North**

_(08:56AM)_

Ur a killjoy sometimes lol

Taking the fun out of this

 

_(08:57AM)_

Fine

But only for u

 

Connor decides he’s going to assume she’s joking in response to his joke, because her finding a way to point a knife at Hank is –

 

No, yeah, it definitely sounds _exactly_ like what he can imagine North pulling. She’d even be able to find a casual way to point it in his direction, in a way that could be threatening or could be completely innocent. Connor isn’t sure if he should laugh or be worried and decides to just be glad at the reluctant agreement.

 

**Connor**

_(08:59AM)_

Thank you.

You might even like him you know.

You guys definitely have the same music taste.

 

**North**

_(9:00AM)_

Don’t push ur luck con

Lol

 

**Connor**

_(9:01AM)_

Hey, it was worth a shot.

I’ll see you later, okay?

 

**North**

_(9:02AM)_

Looking forward 2 it

Gonna be a fun holiday lol

 

Connor can practically see her typing that last bit gleefully. It’s yet another check to the _‘things he should be worried about’_ category, but he decides to focus on the good and hope for the best. He does not bother trying to convince Markus, because boy does that feel like it’d be a wasted amount of effort. He’s just going to need to deal with how that works out as it happens.

 

He switches gears to get ready to go, since Hank’s picking him up and he has no idea if he’s going to be on time or not. Turns out he falls into the hopelessly late category to the point he thinks maybe he slept late (or worse, his mind helpfully provides, and he feels deeply guilty doubting him even for a moment). He’s just about to call when he hears a full-on knock on his door. At first he assumes it’s his neighbor – she often pops in on holidays to say hello – but instead finds Hank standing there when he opens it.

 

It’s not as though he hadn’t looked together the last time they saw each other – he had, he had looked so much better – but how he looks reminds him of their first date. His hair is pulled back and his beard is trimmed neatly. His shirt is still…very him, honestly, a bit of a stripy number, but both it and his slacks are well pressed. He’s handsome, there’s no denying it, not usually and especially not right now.

 

Handsome to the point Connor is definitely staring, which is rude, as it turns out. Hank takes it negatively by the way he grimaces and glances away, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Not good? I barely know how to fucking dress for shit like this anymore.”

 

Just another reminder It always how Hank clearly just doesn’t see what Connor sees. It’d been like that from the beginning, which is a shame, because holy shit, _holy shit_. He chooses to answer first by reaching up and tugging his face down to him so he press a brief, affection kiss to his mouth. It pulls his attention right back to Connor, as intended.

 

“I was just thinking how good you looked. I like having an easier time seeing your eyes,” he reassures, grinning.

 

Hank wheezes out an awkward huff of a laugh. “Fuck, that’s a little lame, kid.”

 

“I don’t know, I think you like it,” he challenges, because he spots the uptick of the corners of his mouth. He leaves it at that small bit of teasing as he steps away, granting him access. “Come on in, I’ll just be a second.”

 

Hank seems surprised at the offer but heads inside, shutting the door behind him. Connor had been intent on just making sure he had everything before leaving but it dawns on him suddenly that maybe he shouldn’t be an asshole and give him a tour of his place.

 

Since, right, he’s never properly been in here, after all, has he? Never. Hank’s glancing around in a way that makes it clear he’s curious, too. The problem is he really did not clean up for a tour. His house isn’t terrible by any means, but it’s not perfect, and it makes him a little twitchy. He does his best to shake it off and mostly – _mostly_ – succeeds.

 

“You’ve never been in here, have you?” he asks in a way that it seems like this is some grand revelation he’s just had and didn’t just have a ten second mini-freak out about how clean his place is.

 

“First time,” Hank confirms, apparently not spotting his anxiety because he’s too busy looking around in a way someone looks around when they want to be nosy but are trying not to. He doubts he’s going to get out of anything less than at least a short walkaround. “Is that your fish?”

 

Considering it’s the biggest thing in his main room, it’s not surprising the tank is what draws Hank’s attention first. He nods, heading over and expecting Hank to follow. He does, squatting down a little to see inside. They float around quietly, seemingly not even noticing the presence of someone nearby.

 

“Like I said, not exactly a dog,” he grins, sheepishly. “But I’ve done my best to make sure they like hanging out here anyway.”

 

He does not mention just how much time he spent making sure he did it all _correctly_. It's more than what he’s sure an average fish owner would do, but he likes doing things right, no matter what right looks like and no matter how expensive it ends up costing him. It’s practically a little ecosystem in there at this point, just like it should be.

 

“Looks like you took a slice of the ocean and put it in the tank. Probably the point, right?” he guesses, glancing over at him. Connor nods.

 

“It took me a while to get it that way, but working on it was and still is relaxing,” he admits. It’s hard to believe Hank actually cares or even finds it worth asking about, but he is trying to show interest, and that’s not lost on him.

 

“Picture didn’t do it justice,” he decides after a moment and steps away, looking around at the rest of the place.

 

It feels a little like his fish were given a stamp of approval. They unfortunately do not seem very impressed, even if it makes Connor happy.

 

“You want to see the rest of the place?” he asks. Hank shrugs noncommittally, but he can tell he’s just trying not to be rude by demanding it. It’s appreciated, but it’d feel weird now doing anything but walking him around. Not many ways to non-awkwardly rush someone out. “There’s not much to see, honestly, but uh – this is the kitchen and living room. Obviously.”

 

“Obviously,” Hank echoes with a little grin, one that makes him think he must be picking up some of his discomfort and is finding it funny. Connor decides not to comment on it and starts walking toward and opening one of the two doors that contain the other two rooms of his place. He steps aside to let him take a look.

 

“Sorry, it’s a bit of a mess,” he admits, because he knows full well he would’ve scrubbed this entire place down if he would've known this was going to be happening. Hank shoots him a baffled look when he pokes his head in to see what he’s talking about.

 

“If this is messy, my house must drive you fucking crazy,” he mutters, shaking his head as he looks around. That isn’t exactly…false, though he certainly knows better than agreeing. Instead, he internalizes it and tries his best to not be quite so self-conscious instead.

 

They move on from his bathroom and into his bedroom. To him, this room is even worse than the last one, but Connor suppresses his desire to apologize for it this time. Hank clearly does not notice the few things out of place at all, after all. He does hesitate at the door, though, and Connor realizes he’s waiting for actual permission to go in.

 

“This is my room,” he announces, as if the bed isn’t a big hint, walking inside and glancing over his shoulder long enough that he likes to think it says _‘well, come in’_. He steps over to his shades and opens them up, letting the sunlight brighten everything around him. It’s his favorite part of the room, how well-lit it can be during the day. By the time he turns around again, Hank had in fact taken the hint and stepped inside. He takes the permission so much he’s poking around a little, even.

 

Connor can understand why. This is really the only room he’s put personal things up in and there’s nothing in here he feels adamant about him not seeing. Eventually, after a little bit of wandering around, he comes to a stop in front of the board he’s pinned up things he didn’t want to lose. He heads over when it’s clear Hank’s studying it, coming to a stop beside him.

 

There’s no sense waiting to be prompted to explain what he’s looking at, he just starts talking.

 

“Articles about the opening,” Connor notes, pointing to one of a few that are displayed. He looks young in the pictures accompanying those, Markus and he both do. There’s more, of course – candids of him with his friends, both new and old. They seem self-explanatory, so he simply motions to them and adds, “And pictures of things I like remembering.”

 

“Parents?” he guesses, tapping on one picture. It’s the most faded thing on there – a picture from his high school graduation, with the two of them standing behind him smiling.

 

“That’s them,” he confirms, smiling a little wistfully. “I talked to them yesterday. They’re cruising in Italy right now, I think?”

 

“Lucky them,” Hank snorts, a growing look of amusement spreading on his face. “Christ, you were even more goofy looking than you are now. Didn’t know that was fucking possible.”

 

The comment is said in such a throwaway fashion that Connor nearly misses he’s being teased. Nearly. He lets out a surprised laugh, smacking him on the arm.

 

“Goofy? Seriously?”

 

“I am not the first person to call you that, I don’t fucking buy that for a second,” he challenges, looking him over with a sharp raise of his eyebrow.

 

He is not, but he’s not going to give him the satisfaction of admitting to that. He shoots him his best sour look, even if he isn’t actually offended. Hank laughs – laughs! – as he just shakes his head and starts heading out, patting Connor on his shoulder as he goes.

 

“Never said it didn’t work for me,” he points out simply, like he’s _not_ currently openly admitting to finding him attractive right now in a very Hank sort of way. Before Connor can get a word in edgewise, he’s gone, out into the main room, leaving him smiling without meaning to.

 

He takes a moment to get that right out of his system, because it still feels a little like he just charmed his way out of any kind of repercussions involving the teasing. Which, to be fair, he did, but he’s not here to be so overt about it right now. He puts up something resembling a poker face as he heads out to follow. Hank’s grabbed what he correctly guessed was the stuff Connor was bringing over and is waiting near the door.

 

“Ready to go blow my kitchen up?” he asks, as self-deprecating as usual. If he notices the look, he's ignoring it, and he officially wins the unofficial stand off.

 

Connor, giving in, just laughs and shakes his head. “I would be very impressed with us if we managed that making mashed potatoes and cookies.”

 

That he instantly feels like he just somehow jinxed them is a little unsettling, but he reassures himself it will be fine. This entire day will be fine. It has to be.

 

* * *

 

Watching Hank bake is about as entertaining as he expects it to be.

 

He doesn’t say this outloud as he watches him concentrate on mixing the ingredients with an expression so serious it is comical, but he's definitely thinking it. Sure, it’s tempting to tease him, but he has a feeling this is the sort of thing he might legitimately be insecure about, and it’s not worth hurting his feelings. He chooses instead to remain nearby, ready to help.

 

“Relax,” he does offer up when he pauses in his mixing and the sound of whirring dies down, which makes Hank look up at him. Connor shoots him what he hopes is an encouraging look, though notes, “You’re the tensest baker I’ve ever seen.”

 

He looks something approaching embarrassed as he tries to take the advice. Connor can see him try to relax his stance. “…I just want to make sure this shit comes out right.”

 

Of course. He knows he wants to impress or at the very least, not _repulse_. Connor can and will make sure the latter never happens, at the very least.

 

“You’re doing great,” he offers up as he peeks over to check. “I think it might actually be ready for you to start divvying them up to put on the cooking sheet. We should have more than enough for two batches. You want me to help?”

 

Hank considers it before shaking his head no. “Just do the first one so I know what size I should be making these things.”

 

Fair enough. Connor takes the sheet, which they’d prepared earlier. He grabs the amount he usually does and starts rolling the dough into a ball. “These don’t need to be exact. Even I eyeball them.”

 

From his expression, he can guess Hank’s going to try to match it as much as he can anyway. He just puts it down and steps aside, letting him do what he needs to do. In fact, not wanting to lean over his shoulder, he even opts to wash his hands and give Sumo some attention while he gets the tray ready.

 

The dog, unsurprisingly, is over the moon with the unexpected but not unwelcome greeting.

 

“Don’t you need to make your shit?” he questions, glancing at the bag of potatoes on his table.

 

“It doesn’t take long to put mashed potatoes together. I was going to start slicing the chunks once you’re done,” he shrugs. He may have purposely chosen one of the easier dishes this time around, not wanting to upstage what Hank is doing in any way. “We’ll get all of this done on time.”

 

The reassurance seems to help a little bit as he works. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t make Connor double check him, but he seems more confident that he’s done this part right. Which he has – honestly, he does better than Connor usually does in making them near identical in size. Once the batch is thrown in, he sits heavily at the kitchen table with a loud groan. Connor gives Sumo one last pat and joins him.

 

Silence falls between them. Hank’s in his own head, he can see it. He knows because he retreats into his own mind too a lot, and honestly, it’s not useful right now. There’s no way to be sure what he’s thinking, but he decides to distract him anyway, reaching out and covering his larger hand with his. It’s enough to make him look up and over at him.

 

“You know, it’s just a few hours, and it’ll be done,” he points out, using a thought that’s been helping him keep his nerves in check. “If you’re worried about something happening if it doesn’t go well, you shouldn’t be. I appreciate their input, but that’s all it is to me.”

 

For the first time since they got here and started putting their food together, he legitimately sees Hank relax. Not in a forced way like when he was baking earlier, but the sort of relaxing that happens unconsciously when a weight’s been lifted. He realizes only in that moment that he must have been mulling over that thought since this entire thing was even suggested.

 

“Did you really think otherwise?” he asks, feeling a sharp pang of regret as it sinks in that he really hadn’t made that clear earlier.

 

“I know they mean a shitload to you and you work with them, which just makes it worse,” he replies after what a few moments of considering how he wants to answer. “I don’t want to be an issue between you and them. You said it yourself, you wouldn’t be able to deal with everyone hating each other.”

 

It’s just another moment where he’s struck about how different this entire relationship is. Facing what is sure to be an extremely awkward experience, he still seems to be way more concerned about Connor than he is about himself. He’s willing to take the knocks, but not if the blowback somehow hits him too. It’s…nice. He has to force himself not to smile because it’d be wildly inappropriate considering the actual conversation.

 

“That’s not going to happen,” he says, feeling even more sure of that now than before. He considers bringing up exactly why that is – oh, he has some _stories_ when it comes to the sort of things that went down between Markus and his last boyfriend – but he opts not to tell him.

 

He can see it leading into questions he knows are way, way too heavy for a conversation before an already stressful day. He knows Hank well enough at this point that he wouldn’t be able to _infer_ things, even if Connor did his best to be as vague as possible with the details. Hell, he was pretty sure him being vague would throw up _more_ red flags than if he decided to go a more forthright route.

 

No, better to put that aside for a time when they both aren’t already stressed. He can see reasons popping up that maybe it would be a good idea to talk about it now anyway, but he quickly silences them. He’s really, really good at silencing the sensible stuff that pops into his head at this point. A _pro_ , even.

 

“Yeah, you say that shit now,” he mutters, darkly. Connor had been waiting for the nerves to start getting to him. Apparently that time was now.

 

“Inviting you wasn’t my suggestion. They just want to check you out, that’s all. Maybe give you a little crap too, but nothing you can’t handle,” he reminds. It’s not a lie, it’s not a way to make him feel better – it’s the truth. This is how his friends operate. “You just need to be yourself.”

 

Hank makes a face at that _immediately_. “Fuck, I thought you wanted your friends to _like_ me.”

 

He is only half-joking and he knows it. There’s an underlying tone of actual issues and worries he’s currently having, and Connor knows it. Though he’s still got a gentle tone, it becomes firmer when he points out, “It worked on me, didn’t it?”

 

Hank stares at him for a long moment before dipping his head down a little, his shoulders hunching. He looks outwardly pensive, which is unusual for someone who practically schools himself to keep a neutral expression. He exhales a sigh after sorting through whatever is going on in his head. “Not gonna keep getting lucky forever, kid.”

 

There’s a compliment there, tangled in with the meaner sentiment toward himself. He lets himself enjoy it for a second, if only because he knows Hank is far more about gestures than words, and it says a lot that he’s vocalized something openly affectionate for him. That doesn’t give him a pass on the fact he’s getting down on himself, though, and he shifts his attention to quelling that immediately.

 

“Good thing it had nothing to do with luck, then,” he muses, shooting him a small, encouraging smile. “I know this is going to blow your mind, but I still actually like being around you and I definitely know none of this is an act to impress me. I mean, unless you think I’m really into watching you openly swear at my hand mixer like it can hear you.”

 

Hank sharply glances over, the comment doing the trick, seemingly helping refocus to that and out of what could’ve easily been a spiral of negative thinking. “It’s needlessly fucking complicated to get the beaters to lock in and I’m standing by that.”

 

He says it with the same amount of disdain as he had earlier, and it makes Connor burst out laughing because it’d been a lot to ask of him not to go into a fit of hysterics the first time around when he was watching it happen. Pulling his hand away to grip at his sides, the laugh is hard enough that he’s literally shaking with it for a moment. It takes him probably too long to get himself under control.

 

“Look – _look!_ \- I’m just _saying_ it wasn’t your finest moment. Especially when I was right there offering to help you. Multiple times, in fact,” he wheezes, breathlessly. Hank continues to act unamused.

 

“And give you the satisfaction? I know how you get when you get smug, fuck that,” he huffs and he looks away, but not enough to hide what he’s trying to hide.

 

A smile.

 

It’s the nice smile Connor likes. The sort that lifts all the way to the corners of his eyes and lights up his face. There’re so few times he’s entirely unguarded and not weighed down by his own thoughts in front of him, even with all the strides he’s been taking, and it feels like this might just be one of those moments Connor gets to see it. He gives himself a moment to calm his own laughter before he reaches out, touching his cheek. It draws Hank’s attention back onto him. This is exactly the reaction he was looking for.

 

“It’s going to be fine,” he repeats and will seriously keep repeating, bringing it right back around to the earlier conversation. He will say it until they both believe it, and honestly? Connor is definitely getting there. For all of his brain’s insistence on worrying, he is starting to have a hard time imagining anyone missing the kind of things he’s been seeing.

 

Not that he isn’t still a pain in the ass sometimes. Hank purposely remains obtuse in the face of him trying to be encouraging. “I know, I figured it out eventually. Didn’t even fucking break the thing, though it was tempting.”

 

Good thing Connor is just as stubborn. He shakes his head.

 

“No, I mean today. It’s going to be fine. Okay?”

 

For a moment, it looks a whole lot like he’s about to argue. Something shifts in his expression, though, and he sags, leaning into his hand just enough that Connor can feel it. “…Okay.”

 

There’s a level of trust he can see Hank is giving him that just bolsters his intent on making sure things go smoothly. For both their sakes, at this point.

 

* * *

 

They finish up not long before they have to get going a few hours later. Hank takes Sumo out for a long walk – they’d purposely came back to the house instead of sticking around the apartment to make sure the poor dog didn’t end up waiting for hours to pee, after all – and Connor lets him take the walk alone. It’s clear he’s using it to clear his head and it only feels fair to give him the space he needs. He doesn’t really think about it until he’s gone, but it’s a strange sensation to being in this house alone without the baggage of worrying about not being welcome.

 

Because, honestly? For the first time, he feels the pull of being nosy himself. It’s one thing to clean a house, it’s another to explore it. He lingers first in the living room, browsing the collections of stuff he has as decoration. There’s a plant by the window that needs watering, which fills up about two minutes of his time. He’s tempted to shift through what looks like a collection of records, but it feels a little like he should ask before touching them, so he doesn’t. He moves on, walking idly down the small hallway. The bathroom door is open, the light on, and he can spot what looks like new post-in notes stuck on the mirror. He wanders close enough to take a look, and there’s more positive affirmations that hadn’t been there before. Some of them even sound like something he probably would’ve heard in therapy, which makes sense, considering.

 

He knows where he keeps the notes. Since he hadn’t reacted negatively the first time he did this – the note he’d written is still there, in fact, and the realization of that makes him smile – he decides to scribble another one. It’s a simple sentiment – _You’ve Got_ _This_ – but it feels a little like something he could do with seeing for a whole host of different reasons. He sticks it in a spot he knows he’ll likely spot it, though he’s careful not to cover any of the ones he put up for himself. Tossing the pad and pen back into its place, he shuts the light off when he’s done.

 

They’re still not back, so inevitably he wanders, finally, to the last room he’s seen in the house. There’s a stark contrast between the last time he’d fallen asleep on the room’s chair and now. What was once an untamed mess is now as tidy as he thinks it’ll ever be. There’s a not insignificant part of him that wants to poke around, but he hesitates at the door, knowing he ought to give Hank the same consideration he’d given him with his own room earlier. There’s a stray thought in his head that reminds him, unhelpfully, he’d practically had an open invitation the last time he came over.

 

…Which of course opens the flood gates to him thinking of the moments leading up to that and wow, should he _not_ be thinking about that or what might’ve been right now, not when they’re about to leave. Hank aids him by making a timely reappearance, the sound of the door slamming pulling him out of his thoughts very, very quickly. Even though he didn’t go in, he steps away from the door guiltily, as though he’d somehow done something wrong just by being by it. He decides not to linger, heading out into the main area and hoping he assumes he’d just been in the bathroom. Hank raises an eyebrow at him as he emerges, unhooking Sumo from the leash to let the dog bound over to him.

 

“Was wondering where you were. Glad to see you didn’t fucking bail on me,” he jokes as Connor gives the dog the attention he’s looking for. It’s also an excellent reason to not be looking at Hank right now, because he’s just a little worried he somehow might catch wind of where his mind had just been wandering with just a look.

 

“I’d have to walk home if I were doing that and you would’ve caught me anyway,” he teases, straightening up from petting the animal. “You good?”

 

Hank shoots him a look that suggests he just asked a very stupid question. Which – yeah, it kind of is. He answers anyway, deadpan, “Fan-fucking-tastic. Let’s go and get this over with.”

 

Connor does not bother stifling his laugh. “That’s the spirit.”

 

After double checking Sumo has more than enough water and food to get him through however long they’ll be out, they grab the food – both of which, for what it’s worth, came out excellently – and pile into his old, beat up car. It’s funny, but even it’s actually a little cleaner, a fact he notices when he glances in the back and spots the distinct lack of wrappers he knows used to be there. He’s got the bowl of mashed potatoes in his lap, and he _tap-tap-taps_ the side of it as Hank starts following his GPS to Markus and Simon’s apartment. He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it in any audible way until he hears the other man sigh.

 

“Stop fidgeting,” he chides and Connor’s finger stills.

 

“Sorry,” he apologizes, sheepishly. He has to focus to not do it now, despite desperately wanting to. “Nervous tic.”

 

He can see Hank somewhat watching him out of the corner of his eye. Like he’s doing that thing where he’s trying to get a read on him without asking, and probably correctly guessing everything. Connor has long since realized that he’s pretty much an open book when he’s a ball of nervous energy. There’s no hiding it, as much as he realizes he probably should be right now.

 

“Do I need to throw ‘it’ll be fine’ in your face a few times?” he threatens, eyebrow lifting.

 

“Don’t you throw my pep talks back at me,” Connor groans and Hank laughs. The smile is there again, the one he likes, and it’s interesting how focusing on it legitimately helps. It’s embarrassing and probably a little worrying how him just being _around_ helps.

 

They fill the quiet of the car with talking the rest of the ride over, and he only realizes halfway there that Hank is specifically doing it because he knows it’s pulling him out of his own head. It’s probably helping him too, sure, but he had been content to be quiet right up until he saw him struggling. By the time they get there, he’s not exactly _relaxed_ , but he’s feeling better as he gets out of the car and is assaulted immediately by the cold November wind whipping past. He grimaces against it, juggling the food while shutting the door with his foot. Hank’s rounded the car to him by then, wordlessly taking some of the stuff off his hands so he doesn’t need to carry it all in himself. They share a look in that moment, then Hank nods to lead the way.

 

They can hear the party as soon as they get close to the door, the unmistakable muffled sound of music playing that Connor already knows North curated. He shifts the plate he’s carrying so he has a free hand to knock on the door. It takes a few moments, but there’s the sound of the door unlocking and then it swings open.

 

The petite woman standing at the doorway is instantly recognizable, though the last time Connor had seen her, she hadn’t been sporting bright blue highlights in her blonde hair she has now. Her smile widens when she realizes it’s him, practically brightening her pretty face. Without a word, she steps forward and pulls him into a hug that he’s only partially prepared for.

 

“Chloe, I was wondering if you were coming,” he laughs, balancing what he’s holding in such a way that he can at least somewhat hug her back. She pulls away after, hands firmly gripping his shoulders as she looks him over.

 

“You look great,” she declares, approvingly. Her gaze finally shifts beyond his face and behind him, noting now they aren’t alone. Her smile doesn’t falter, but there’s a glint in her eyes. “And you must be Hank.”

 

Connor does not need to look over to guess Hank’s probably looking uncomfortable. Still, he answers, as evenly as he can, “I see my reputation precedes me.”

 

To Chloe’s credit, she actually gives him something approaching a sympathetic look. “North’s had some choice words, but she has choice words about _everyone_.”

 

Connor attempts to hide his snort of laughter in a cough. Chloe’s smile doesn’t waver as she steps aside and right up to Hank, offering her hand.

 

“I’m Chloe, North’s girlfriend. I’m a little disappointed Connor didn’t mention me,” she states, making a little tutting noise in his direction.

 

“No manners, this one,” Hank agrees dryly as he takes her hand and shakes it, and he definitely sees the look Connor shoots him, because he can barely contain the straight face he’s putting forward. Chloe practically lights up at the teasing happening in front of her.

 

“Oh, you’re going to be fun, aren’t you,” she approves, the smile not leaving her face. She moves aside then, motioning them in. “Come on in. And I’ll take point with North, don’t worry.”

 

Chloe winks at them both and Connor nods, looking grateful, as they’re ushered inside.

 

It seems like they’re the last to arrive, judging by a quick sweep of the room – even Kara and Alice, who are currently sitting with the man who he only knows is named Luther, if his memory serves him. When they come in, everyone is chatting animatedly with whoever they’re nearby. That doesn’t exactly change, but it’s very hard to miss people glancing over at them all at once.

 

 _Don’t freak out_ , his mind helpfully offers, even as every part of him feels like it’s flooding with a bloom of anxiety. Before he can freeze up too much, he feels a light, warm hand on his shoulder. Connor glances behind him to see Hank watching him. It’s exactly the kind of steadying he needs right now, even if Connor isn’t sure Hank even realizes just how much it helps.

 

“Look who finally decided to fucking show up.”

 

The person who says this is North, of course, from across the room. Connor rolls his eyes.

 

“Traffic was a pain, what can I say,” he responds, watching Simon head them off. He looks between the two, his expression, as usual, schooled in a very neutral, non judgmental look.

 

“Do you need me to grab your coats?” he offers.

 

“Nah, it’s fine. Same room as usual, right?” he asks, and Simon hesitates for a moment, then nods.

 

“Yeah. Markus is in there, I think.”

 

It’s noted offhandedly, but Connor can spot a warning when he sees one, or at least a heads up. His attention shifts to Hank as he offers and then takes the plate he’s holding. They exchange initial pleasantries, Simon introducing himself in his usual, friendly manner. Leave it to him to be diplomatic, though he knows him well enough to know he’s a little guarded, like he’s trying to silently get a read on him.

 

“Here, I’ll take our stuff in, you get comfortable somewhere?” Connor suggests, very much dangling an out in front of his face. He wouldn’t judge him at all if he didn’t want to start this already on edge, and yet he shakes his head in response to the offer.

 

“Nah, I’ll come with you,” he replies, and Connor spots Simon’s expression shift to something a curious out of the corner of his eye.

 

“I’ll leave you two to it then,” Simon decides, stepping aside and toward the main area where everyone is sitting.

 

Connor does his very best not to look nervous, because he’s pretty sure that’s only going to make things harder for Hank. This of course leads his calm expression to look forced, which in turn…probably does not look calm at all. He busies himself tugging off his scarf as they make their way toward the room, deciding any attempt to be reassuring will just make things worse.

 

Markus is, in fact, in the room – he’s looking like he’s about to leave, actually, when they step into the doorframe. He stops mid-step, surprised, glancing between the two of them.

 

“Oh, you made it,” he realizes, and there’s a moment Connor can see him briefly narrowing his eyes in Hank’s direction. It’s gone before Connor can be sure he even saw it, replaced by his usual, warm smile as he steps forward and pulls him into a brief hug. His hands plant on Connor’s shoulders once he pulls away and his gaze shifts to Hank over his shoulder. Though his smile doesn’t fade, his tone gets a bit…curt. “It’s nice to see you again, Hank. I was wondering if you were going to show.”

 

It’s pointed, so very pointed. Connor steps away and out of his grip so he’s standing next to Hank. For his part, the older man does not even seem to flinch at it.

 

“I know it’s a lot you even invited me and I appreciate it, it’s been a long time since it’s been more than just me and my dog,” he explains, evenly, sincerely. He pauses then, before adding, just as plainly, “I’m not looking to fuck up twice here.”

 

He didn’t need to say the second part, but he does. Connor picks up the shift of tone to something apologetic, and it seems Markus does too, because while still wary, he seems to be taken aback by him not just sidestepping it. It unfortunately does not do much in terms of softening Markus up to him.

 

“For everyone’s sake, I hope you don’t,” he responds, coolly. He steps aside then, motioning toward the bed. “Put your stuff in here. I’m going to go see if Simon needs anything.”

 

And then he’s gone. All things considered, okay, that was bad, but not – too bad? Maybe? Connor sneaks a peek over at Hank to see he still looks steady. Hank’s already looking at him and huffs out a laugh at what he assumes is the strained expression that is currently on his face.

 

“It’s a party, stop looking so fucking serious,” he teases, lifting an eyebrow. “Let him watch.”

 

There’s a confidence he isn’t quite expecting Hank to have, and he assumes at least part of it is bravado – how could it not be, surrounded by people who are looking for a reason not to be friendly? Wherever it’s coming from, he knows it’s partially there for Connor’s sake, and he’s grateful. Even looks appropriately less tense, even if he’s not feeling all that better.

 

“I just – worry,” he admits, as if this were some big revelation.

 

“You? No,” he mocks surprise, and it gets a laugh out of Connor, which is clearly and specifically what he’d been aiming for. It lightens the air between them, at least for now.

 

They both toss the coats onto the pile of them on the bed. All that’s really left is to march out there and face the crowd, but before that? Before that, and a bit on a whim, Connor full on grabs his arm, halting Hank’s movement. He shoots him a quizzical look, expecting something to be said.

 

There’s nothing he can say that’s much of a pep talk. So he does something better and kisses him instead, right there in the middle of the room. It’s brief – chaste, even, because again, they are definitely still standing in the middle of his best friend’s bedroom, and it’d be weird to go beyond that – but it’s there as a wordless thank you that Hank seems almost grateful to accept, considering the absolute lack of any sort of protest.

 

He still feels the warmth of it even afterwards as they head out together. Everyone is still milling about, talking with each other, the music still pulsing through the small apartment. Connor considers getting food but decides his stomach is too unsettled. He does nod toward the appetizers out to be taken for Hank’s sake, but it seems like he’s got the same issue going on. He considers grabbing a beer to make this easier too, but that idea is out the window as soon as it pops in.

 

It’s not like he would say anything, but Connor assumes using alcohol for stress is off limits for Hank, so it should be off limits for him too. Solidarity and not being a dick, it feels like a good call. It unfortunately means he has to face this sober, which –

 

Well, it’s not ideal.

 

“There you are!”

 

North is some inches smaller than him, but it does not stop her from wrapping one arm companionably around his neck when they approach the small group that’s gathered around chatting near the couches, making him hunch a little to make it work. Which he does, because he is very used to this by now.

 

“You know, Hank here made me lose a bet. Didn’t think he’d show,” she says, entirely aware that Hank is standing right beside him. She even sunnily grins at him.

 

“North –“ Connor begins, a warning tone seeping in.

 

“How much did you lose?” Hank cuts him off before he can scold her. She seems briefly surprised at the response before her smile widens.

 

“She’d only do five bucks,” Josh pipes up, answering for her. To Connor, he adds, “I would’ve bet fifty for him to show up, but North knew she was going to lose. It was practically a vote of confidence.”

 

North makes a face at him but doesn’t exactly disagree, which legitimately _does_ make it feel like a vote of confidence. He knows her well enough to know she’d say otherwise if it wasn’t true, especially for something like that.

 

“First of all, fuck you, Josh. It’s more fun he showed up, I’ll take the hit,” she says instead, finally releasing Connor so he can stand up straight again. She slips the arm around Chloe instead, who seems like she’s keeping as much an eye on her as Connor is. “Would’ve put my winnings toward cheering your boyfriend up again if you bailed on him, so it’s not like it would’ve gotten me anything.”

 

Yeah, there it is, this is what Connor knew was probably going to happen. He’d jokingly mentioned watching out if she had a carving knife earlier, but North’s words are as sharp as any blade. She’s watching Hank and gauging his reaction now, her eyes narrowed dangerously despite the fact the rest of her expression is unnervingly friendly. It’s about as intimidating as Connor has ever seen her, which is saying _a lot_.

 

Hank seems to look at each face watching him right now. Connor stamps down the immediate instinct to intervene, if only because of how he’d reacted earlier when he tried. He’d said he wanted to take the responsibility on himself before and he knows he should respect that.

 

That doesn’t mean it’s easy to keep his mouth shut. He’s really, really good at butting in.

 

“I mean, I could just fucking dance around the fact I was an asshole, but I’m not here to waste you time,” he starts, specifically looking at North as he does. “So, there you go. I was an asshole I can’t undo what I did. Half the time I don’t even know why he’s giving it a pass myself, because I sure as hell don’t feel like I deserve it. So I’m trying to change that.”

 

Connor can’t help but frown. “Hank…”

 

When he looks over, he has a slight, sad smile on his face. It takes just about everything in him not to respond, but this feels very much like a conversation they should be having privately. Besides, even if he did want to say something, North cuts in before he can even consider it.

 

“Ugh, you guys are gross,” North groans, grabbing their attention away from each other. The sharp look has softened somewhat, though not entirely. “You can admit what’s obvious all you want. I don’t care. Disappear again like a douchebag and leave us to deal with it and I’ll fucking find you. Clear?”

 

Connor can see everyone’s eyes on Hank. He has no doubt Markus is lingering nearby, too, listening in. He wouldn’t blame him for not reacting well to the threat – hell, he wants to react _himself_ right now on Hank’s behalf.

 

Hank chooses to not to get upset. No, he simply crosses his arms against his chest and answers, firmly, “Crystal.”

 

The look is finally gone in that moment and Connor swears he feels the tension lift with it. She kisses Chloe on the cheek before flitting over to the side Connor isn’t standing next to, looping her arm around his bicep.

 

“Well, alright then. Come on, big guy. You’re at least obligated to eat what I brought,” she urges, clearly intent on pulling him away. She winks at Connor when she undoubtedly notes his nervous look. “I’ll bring him back in one piece, I promise.”

 

Hank allows her to start tugging him away, and then they’re gone, off to the area where the appetizers are. Connor has to suppress the urge to hover to make sure she didn’t just whisk him off to throw a couple more threats his way, reminding himself he can more than handle himself. Probably. It’s a bit of a tossup when it comes to North, honestly.

 

Either way, Chloe clearly takes the opportunity to grab him away once their little standing group starts to disperse to other areas of the apartment. He lets her drag him away, toward the couches where there’s an empty space they can both sit. Kara and Luther are talking to Simon nearby, while Alice sits beside them, looking uncomfortable.

 

He makes a mental note to say hello later. There’s a lot of people she doesn’t know here, and he knows her well enough to know that’s the sort of thing that sends her right back into the shell it’s only recently he’s seen her come out of more. But first?

 

First there’s Chloe.

 

“I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever,” she sighs, an admonishment as much as a statement. “When was the last time, July?”

 

Connor squints a little, trying to remember “Yeah, I think? At that barbeque at Josh’s place. Were you even together with North back then?”

 

She shakes her head. “No, a little bit after. We hit four months last week.”

 

Summer feels like a lifetime ago. It hits him all at once at the mention of months it’s been, how short four months sounds when it feels like it’s practically been a year. It’s been a strange fall.

 

“And you still haven’t killed each other, impressive,” he jokes, and she laughs, glancing aside to where North is still with Hank. He’s eating what Connor assumes is what she brought, and they’re talking about something that’s out of earshot.

 

“How about you guys?” she asks, pulling his attention back to her.

 

“Hm?”

 

She gives him a look like she thinks he’s being purposely dumb. “How long have you guys been dating? I know things soured for a while, North told me all about that.”

 

Boy, that’s a question isn’t it? Did he go as far back as the first time they had a date that wasn’t even technically a date? None of the things before he disappeared a while had ever been appropriately defined. “Officially?”

 

She nods her head, again looking at him like he’s saying things that should be obvious.

 

Connor feels himself flush as he realizes this is legitimately the first time he’s even talked about this. He’s been so wrapped up in making sure they survive this party that he hasn’t exactly given the weight of the conversation he had with him about this that it deserved. “About a week.”

 

An actual flash of surprise crosses her face. He can see her gaze trail to Hank for a long moment, then back to him. “Wait, seriously?”

 

Connor isn’t following, but it feels like he’s missing something. “…Yes? Why?”

 

A slow smile curves up onto his face, which just serves to further confuse him. She takes a sip of drink before answering, “Oh, nothing. He’s got it bad for a week, though. You do too, for that matter.”

 

There’s no hiding the immediate reaction of embarrassment that warms his face in an undoubtedly visible. It just makes Chloe grin wider. It’s a good reminder North and she are two peas in a pod.

 

“God, you’re so cute sometimes,” she laughs, reaching over to playfully pinch his cheek. He bats it away just in time for North and Hank to wander back over. Hank’s got two plates in his hands.

 

“Fucking around with Connor?” North asks, approvingly. Chloe’s smile is cheeky.

 

“Oh, we were just talking about –“

 

Connor cannot cut her off fast enough, blurting out the absolute first thing that comes to mind. “How’s the appetizers?”

 

So much for not looking something approaching crazy. Hank doesn’t seem to know what to make of it, so he just shrugs it off and holds out his other plate, clearly having learned the fine art of not asking. Connor takes the plate wordlessly, trying not to look embarrassed.

 

“Not a bad spread,” Hank replies simply with a shrug. “Thought you’d want some too.”

 

Now that things are calming down, he can feel his stomach starting to react to the lack of food he’s eaten. It’s the middle of the afternoon and he’s been subsisting on two strong cups of coffee and the couple of cookies he ate to make sure Hank’s batches came out okay. It turns out that’s not really something that can long-term sustain him.

 

“Thanks,” he smiles, even as he very much feels both Chloe and North watching him. Watching _them_. “I take it you weren’t poisoned?”

 

“I’m hurt, Connor. That’s a boring as hell way to off someone,” she sighs, nudging Hank in the side. “It’s fine. We had a nice talk, didn’t we?”

 

He actually looks at Hank, tries to gauge if he looks at all upset, but he seems…fine. Completely fine. “Didn’t tell me your friend here’s got a rock band, Con.”

 

She brightens immediately at that. “Yes! I’ve convinced him to drag you to a show finally.”

 

There’s _a lot_ of things he’d expected to come out of today. This was not one of them in any stretches of his assumptions or imagination. She does not hide her delight in his dumbstruck expression.

 

“You _did_ specifically mention we had music taste in common,” she reminds, helpfully, when he doesn’t respond. “I’m looking forward to seeing you both in the crowd.”

 

He did mention it, she’s right. He should have seen this coming, and yet now that it’s happened, it’s an outcome so obvious he’s disappointed he completely missed it.

 

“Fuck, I haven’t been to a show in ages,” Hank muses, raising an eyebrow in Connor’s direction. “Gonna have to take it easy on me.”

 

Any attempt at protesting dies in his throat when he realizes Hank legitimately seems into the idea. Like he’d just been waiting for an excuse and the excuse has presented itself. This is why North looks smug, he realizes all at once. He’s now in a situation that any answer but to go along with it would be the wrong one. Despite the idea of throwing himself into a pit of rock fans is about the last thing he’d choose for himself, he can see he’s going to do it anyway for him.

 

So he just laughs in what he hopes isn’t a nervous way, in a way he hopes conveys he is two hundred and ten percent interested in this particular outing.

 

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll be no worse than me,” he replies, awkwardly, and North’s smile never wavers.

 

Things settle at that point into something approaching a normal Thanksgiving. Sure, there’s enough people this year that even the actual meal is practically buffet style instead of sitting around a table, but it ends up being preferable, gives Connor a chance to catch up with more than just the people he’s sitting around. He keeps hoping Markus would come over, but he’s been flitting about making sure the party is going well, and, if Connor knows him?

 

He’s observing. Connor even spots him doing it a few times, his eyebrows furrowed as he quietly judges.

 

That’s the thing, really. He’s interested in talk and promises even less than North. It’s actions that matter in the end, and if that’s the case? Hank’s passing with flying colors, if you ask him. It’s not as though he ever seems to get to a point he’s entirely comfortable being the center of attention, but he fields every conversation he somehow gets pulled into in a way that shows he’s trying.

 

It’s going as smoothly as it could ever be. It’s perhaps because of that when Hank disappears after going to the bathroom that it pings Connor as off. He doesn’t notice, not at first, but as time wears on and he doesn’t reemerge into the party, he excuses himself and goes looking for him.

 

Their apartment is bigger than Connor’s, but not by much. It’s a little worrying when the bathroom is empty, but it takes only a few moments for him to hear his voice coming from the room where the coats are. He can’t really make out what’s being said until he heads a little closer, stopping short when he catches another voice in there with him.

 

“It’s really noisy.”

 

It’s Alice’s voice. He stops just outside the door, not quite revealing himself yet. He just has this feeling he shouldn’t interrupt just yet.

 

“It’s alright if you needed a break. I did too.”

 

She sounds surprised. “Really? Even you?”

 

“Yeah, of course, kid. Even me. Dunno if I’d have hid under the bed like you did, but only because I would’ve gotten stuck. Could you imagine?”

 

An audible giggle erupts. Connor can count on one hand how many times he’s heard Alice laugh around anyone but Kara.

 

“It would’ve been funny.”

 

Hank laughs himself at that. “You know what? Probably. Not sure if it’d be a good idea, though. Might mess up the bed.”

 

It feels okay now to make his presence known, nudging the door open more so he can poke his head in. Hank’s sitting on the floor with his feet out in front of him, back against the bed, Alice sitting beside him. She’s got her legs pulled up to her chest, though the look of discomfort she’d had on her face most of the party is gone, replaced by something happier, calmer. It briefly disappears when she notices him come in, but it doesn’t take long for her to relax. It feels good seeing it happen, knowing she feels like she can put her guard down around him.

 

“I was wondering where you disappeared to, Hank,” Connor announces, grinning at the two of them as he does. “You two hiding out?”

 

“We’re taking a _break_ ,” Alice corrects, putting emphasis on the word. Connor nods solemnly.

 

“Found this one in a good hiding spot under the bed when I came in here to grab something from my coat,” Hank explains, since he can probably guess Connor is wondering why they’re in here in the first place.

 

“Something happen or did you just want to be alone?” he asks, though he’s sure Hank’s already done the twenty questions.

 

She’s quiet, looking between the two of them. Maybe he asked, but he’s suddenly wondering if she gave Hank the whole story. “…When it gets too loud I don’t feel good, and when I tell her she gets worried and I didn’t want her to be.”

 

Right. Of course Kara’s on high alert with her, given all she’s been through. Hell, jumping at any signs of her discomfort would be something Connor would absolutely be doing in this situation. In fact, he would’ve been trying to go get her right now if Hank wasn’t sitting and calmly listening to her, clearly not hearing anything concerning coming out of her mouth.

 

“Ever told her about that?” Hank nudges, in a non-judgmental tone of voice.

 

She bites her lip at the question, then shakes her head. “Uh-uh.”

 

Connor sees Hank stroking his beard thoughtfully. He lets him decide how he wants to approach this, knowing full well he’s dealt with kids way more. “…You should. Tell her. She’s always gonna worry ‘bout you, that’s just what parents do. But maybe you can find a middle ground.”

 

It’s good, solid advice, so Connor nods his head in agreement. “She’ll be happy you felt comfortable telling her, too. It can be scary talking about your feelings.”

 

Probably not the best thing in the world that he can very much commiserate with her, but that’s his life, he guesses. She seems to take in the advice she’s been given, expression thoughtful. Before she can answer, however, another person joins them.

 

Markus.

 

Some part of Connor wonders how long he’s been there, if he’d been lingering just as he had earlier. He’s got an expression he can’t quite place on his face, and he doesn’t appear surprised three people are currently sitting on the floor in his bedroom. He does look right at Alice, however, not disapproving, but relieved.

 

“There you are. Did you not hear Kara calling for you?” he asks, clearly trying not trying to be scolding. He looks at Connor, then Hank, as well.

 

“Music must’ve drowned it out,” Connor offers apologetically, easing himself up to stand. “She’s fine, as you can see. Hank found her.”

 

There is no way he isn’t going to mention that. Sure enough, Markus does respond to it, his eyebrow ticking up curiously. Connor only smiles, smug, at him.

 

“Yeah, that’s right. Break’s over, seems like,” Hank jokes to Alice, eliciting a small smile out of the girl. She stands up, looking at the two of them. Her shyness is returning, but it’s to a much lesser extent than usual.

 

“Thank you,” she says, softly, going up first to Connor to hug him around his legs – something that frankly stuns him – and then she does the same to Hank, who is similarly surprised but returns it. The size difference is big enough that he practically engulfs her for a second there, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

 

She says little afterwards, stepping away and to Markus, who only looks away when Alice is by his side. He offers his hand and she takes it, led out to where, presumably, Kara and Luther are in the main room. Both are silent for a long moment before Hank starts the process of getting up himself.

 

Connor has the good sense not to look entirely amused at the spectacle.

 

“Thank you for finding her,” he says instead, once he audibly cracks his back a few moments later, a sigh of relief following the noise. He glances over, rubbing the spot he assumes is hurting him.

 

“Kid just needed some space,” Hank shrugs, not really seeing it being a big deal. “The party’s a lot.”

 

That it is. Connor considers asking if he’s okay, period. Not just because of the party, but because he knows this had to make him think of Cole, just a little. He doesn’t bring it up, though, and he takes that as a hint to leave it. Maybe he’ll bring it up later, maybe he won’t. He absolutely just got someone to open up to him in minutes when it took Connor far longer, though, and it’s really hard not to be endeared by it. Just a little.

 

They return to endure the rest of the party. People end up liking Hank’s cookies, which he can tell is a source of pride that he isn’t ever going to cop to but Connor notices. Around six, things finally start to wind down, and Connor decides this is an excellent time to dip out. Hank offers to get their stuff, and Connor waits in the main room, and –

 

Boy, it feels a whole lot like déjà vu when he doesn’t just come back from what should be, at most, a minute or two of making sure he grabbed everything. He’s just about to go over and see if he can’t find something when he reemerges, flanked by Markus. Despite the fact it doesn’t seem like anything is wrong – Markus even says goodbye to him and waves a hand toward Connor as a goodbye – he feels his stomach tie into about five different, unique knots at the sight.

 

“You ready?” Hank asks when he hands over his coat and scarf. Nothing seems particularly off about him, which somehow makes it worse. It certainly does not give him an in to immediately ask what happened. Because something had to happen, right? Something worth talking about? He thinks maybe Hank will bring it up when they’re alone but he doesn’t. He just doesn’t.

 

Connor lasts about a block in the car as they drive toward his apartment before he literally can’t take it anymore. If he doesn’t ask, he’ll go insane. It won’t be pretty.

 

He does, however, attempt to not sound entirely ready to pounce on any bit of information he can drag out of him. It goes poorly, with his voice tenser than it probably ought to be when nothing _seems_ to be wrong. “He didn’t…say anything bad, right?”

 

Hank doesn’t look over, his eyes on the road. “Who? Markus?”

 

He unfortunately does not get to see the eye roll the question draws out of him. Luckily, he seems to sense it, because he doesn’t wait for the obvious response.

 

“Right. No, fuck, it was sort of the opposite? I think it’s as good as it’s going to get right now, anyway,” he informs him, and doesn’t even sound unsure about it.

 

“Good. Great,” he responds, wondering why he still felt like something was wrong. He chalks it up to his tendency to assume the worse and decides to drop it. Hank isn’t offering anything else up, and it feels wrong to keep prying.

 

Even though he wants to. He really, really does. Instead, he simply looks out the window at the passing scenery of the city around them, trying to come down from what he realizes now had to a day of his body running on low-level anxiety. It’s amazing how quickly exhaustion can kick in when your body has been running on adrenaline for a while.

 

He zones out a little, but not enough to miss it when the conversation suddenly starts up again.

 

“Hey, can I ask you something?” Hank suddenly inquires, drawing his attention away from the window. Hank’s face is illuminated every time they pass a street light, but It doesn’t give him enough to read his face. “Might be fucking weird, I don’t know, Markus did mention something and then got pretty tight lipped about it.”

 

Connor’s eyebrows furrow. A part of him knows he’s already going to regret this because that doesn’t sound like Markus, who is rarely, if ever, someone who is vague for no reason, but he answers, “Sure, anything.”

 

Despite the very open invitation, Hank hesitates, like maybe he’s picking up there’s something off whatever he’s going to ask about. Any feeling of being settled disappears in the face of his hesitance. The knots are right back to where they’d been a few moments ago, unbidden, like he knows he needs to prepare for something he doesn’t even know is coming.

 

His instincts, for once, turn out to be right. The question that comes out of Hank is so utterly simple for what a live grenade it actually is:

 

“Who’s Elijah?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is lifted from [House - Ben Folds Five](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AptlXc6BOcI).
> 
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> ~~who is elijah indeed hmm~~


End file.
